


Date Night

by MezzaMorta



Series: Quartet [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom John Watson, Bottom Mycroft Holmes, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Boys In Love, Brotherly Love, Butt Plugs, Class Differences, Clothing Kink, Come Eating, Coming In Pants, Companionable Snark, Consensual Kink, Crossdressing, Dirty Talk, Domestic Fluff, Embarrassment, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Food Sex, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Hand Jobs, Handyman fetish, Holmes spanking, John is Not Amused, Leather Trousers, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Angst, Multi, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft in a pub, Outdoor Sex, Polyamory, Porn with Feelings, Puppy Play, Riding Crop, Rimming, Roleplay, Romance, Rotten jokes, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Is Fun, Sexual Roleplay, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Feels, Sherlock tries to Dom, Snowballing, Spanking, Top Greg Lestrade, Top John Watson, Top Mycroft, Verbal Sex, cake sitting, sploshing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-05-23 21:49:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 47,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14941982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MezzaMorta/pseuds/MezzaMorta
Summary: A series of shorts, each set on one of the Quartet's Date Nights, where they pair off.  The main rule for Date Night: one man gets to ask for something, using the phrase "I want...", and the other has to try it.





	1. Greg and John

**Author's Note:**

> Some short stories to dip into, in no particular sequence. Aiming to eventually cover each pairing and each turn for a Date request. A blatant and transparent effort to fulfil as many filthy, weird, hot and silly little fantasies as seem appropriate for this bunch of irredeemable pervs. And hopefully to make you smile.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's turn first. Not every request is fully appreciated, but what can you do?

As far as the members of Quartet Fuckfest were concerned, it was a truth universally acknowledged that no foursome can survive without Date Night. No matter how mind-blowing and satisfying the entire symphony was when it played, it was necessary on occasion to break off into duets, to allow for variation and reconnection. It never hurt to tune up a relationship, and Date Night ensured harmony for the whole kinky orchestra.

Date Night had rules. Two partners per date. Partners alternated on a rota. No fixed day of the week or regularity due to complex diaries and work patterns. But dates to be arranged at least a fortnight in advance and only cancelled for reasons of the utmost importance - which a patient at death’s door definitely counted as, but which a crucial test on a decomposing head did not. Likewise, an international terrorist incident counted as valid, but working overtime to fill in blue forms was off the menu of acceptable excuses.

Each man took it in turns to choose what kind of date it would be. Most crucially of all, one request must be made by one partner per date, which must be fulfilled, or at least tried by the other. The request must be made using the phrase "I want...," to encourage honesty. The request must, of course, be consensually agreed upon and never go over anyone's pre-stated hard limits. Still, Date Night was often Experiment Night. Or Secret Fantasy night. Though, just as often, it was dinner and a missionary shag night, depending on mood and circumstance. 

Tonight was a Greg and John night, and both men were looking forward to a bit of quality time together which didn't involve work or day-to-day domestic stuff.

"Date night, Friday. You and me, love," said Greg, clearing away the last of the case notes they'd been archiving together at his Lambeth home.

"Yeah, 'bout time. What are the boys doing for theirs?"

Greg shrugged. "Mumbled something about indexing or cataloguing something or other at Myc's."

"Very suss. They'll be playing doctors and nurses," said John, narrowing his eyes and picturing Sherlock in a little nurse's hat. Or would it be Myc in the hat, and Sherlock with the stethoscope...?

Greg smiled as he watched his lover drifting off to his happy place.

"Nah. They'll be painting each other's bloody toe nails again, when they've got Rosie off to sleep. Face pack and pedicure night, if I know those two little flowers." 

Last time he had caught them at it, they'd denied all knowledge afterwards in a classic bit of Holmesian revisionist history. It had simply never happened, they agreed.

"So what do you fancy Friday?” asked John. “Usual rules."

"Yeah, my turn to ask, isn't it?"

"Yep. So, what do you want?" John wondered whether he'd be tied up and submitted to the ice cubes and candle wax again. 

The answer, when it came, rather surprised him.

"I want you in a netball skirt and a pair of gym knickers."

"You what?!"

Greg shrugged, entirely unapologetic. There was no bigger waste of time than being apologetic for things like that.

"Yeah. Dunno why. Just always fancied them. Your arse would look fantastic in a little navy netball skirt and a pair of big girl's panties."

John considered this last statement and wondered whether it was true. Only one way to find out, he supposed. 

"Full of surprises, aren't you? Do you want me to...play a girl? I'm not doing make-up!" he said, quickly. He had nothing against it per se, but he really didn't think it suited him. Only Holmeses could pull off a bit of eyeliner and mascara, and he was absolutely certain he'd seen under-eye concealer and eyebrow shapers in Mycroft's dresser before, though it was all very deniable.

Greg was singularly unfussed about make-up, and about girls, really. He was fussed about his blokes, though, and he was fussed about dressing them up in dirty costumes so he could fuck them ragged.

"Don't mind either way. Just want you bent over in a little pleated thing and a tight pair of elasticated undies. Maybe a little vest and a bib. Sport socks and plimsolls. Reckon that makes me a perv?" asked Greg, equably.

"Yeah."

John mentally rolled his eyes. Lestrade and his sock fetish.

"Cool," said Greg, barely looking up from his paperwork. 

"Want to be my P.E. teacher or something?" probed John, knowing his lover all too well. 

"Yeah, that could work. Or no roleplay at all. See how it goes. Just the outfit, really," said Greg, indifferently.

"Go on, then. But no telling any Holmeses." John could only imagine the teasing, and he shuddered.

"Not a word," promised Greg, zipping his lip with his finger.

***

When Date Night arrived, John was having second thoughts. And third thoughts, and fourth thoughts. Which is why he hadn't come out of the bathroom for twenty minutes since changing into the requested ensemble. 

"Get a move on, Watson, I wanna see it while I'm still young!" called Greg, pacing up and down outside.

John snorted. "Too late."

"Watch it, or I'll have to get rough with you."

"Promise?"

"Yeah, but you have to leave the bathroom first, love."

John sighed and took one last look at himself in the mirror. Maybe it wasn't as silly as he thought.

He braced himself to exit. 

"Right, I'm coming out."

Greg giggled at the phrasing, unable to resist. "Not again! Was once not enough for you?!"

John removed his hand from the door handle.

"Don't you bloody laugh, I'm warning you! Or I'm taking it off and you can wank yourself to sleep."

Greg tutted impatiently. "Shut up moaning and get out here. Let's be having you."

He wanted his naughty netballer. 

John opened the door and stepped out in his thigh-skimming navy skirt, his red team bib with two large white letters on and white vest under it, and his long socks and gym shoes.

"Right. Here I am. See? Ridiculous."

Greg's face lit up in a roguish grin, eyes full of mischief and filthy promise. He looked his lover up and down with a leer, and practically chased him down the corridor to the bedroom.

"Phwoar, sexy legs, give us a cuddle!"

John squeaked and tried to avoid the groping hands, feeling somewhat immodest in his very short skirt and very tight knickers. He placed a defensive hand over his bum as he went.

"Oh, give over! You're laughing. I can see you're laughing. I'm taking it off."

Greg caught up with him in the bedroom, shut the door and swept John into his arms. "Ssh, darlin', don't kick up a fuss. Been on the netball team long, have you?" he said, still grinning and letting his voice drop to his best erotic growl.

"Fuck off!" said John, wiggling and suppressing a chuckle, not wanting to play ball just yet, so to speak. 

"Language. Naughty girl. What's the WA stand for, then?" asked Greg, reading the letters on the bib and stepping back to admire the full effect.

"Fuck's sake, naughty girl...," muttered John, indignantly, pulling his pants out of the crack of his arse where they'd ridden up. "Wing Attack. And I'll attack you if you keep saying things like that," he cautioned with a pointy finger.

Greg stepped in to his lover, and started fiddling with the hem of the skirt. "See, you know all about playing  _positions_ , dontcha? Now, let's have a little peek under..." Greg lifted the skirt up and bit his lip at the sight of John's cock outlined against the straining Lycra fabric. His eyes rolled back in pleasure.

"Ooh, Johnnygirl. Those are a bit raunchy." 

John put his hands on his hips, which felt a bit daft as he stood with his skirt lifted at the front. "You're taking the piss... Do you think so?" he finished, flattered despite his resolve not to be. 

Greg hummed appreciatively. 

"Ooh, yeah. Don't leave much to the imagination, do they? Sporty little strumpet, you are," he breathed, insinuating his hand between the bare thighs.

John slapped his hand away. "Greg, seriously, don't call me that!"

"Oh, don't be a killjoy. Bend over and show us your knickers. It's Date Night." 

John sighed and did as he was told. 

"All right. There. Happy?"

"You better believe it, babe," growled Greg. 

John felt burning eyes on his clothed arse and shivered slightly. His cocked twitched in the restricting underwear, and he suddenly became aware of feeling a bit sexy.

"If Sherlock and Mycroft catch us at this, we'll never hear the bloody end of it," he said, imagining the ghastly fallout of witticisms and immature giggling, even though he knew for a fact that a certain lippy young Holmes got off on wearing a pair of pink frilly knickers under his trousers whilst out on cases sometimes. And a certain older red-headed Holmes definitely had an as-yet undeclared suspender belt and stockings stashed somewhere in his wardrobe.

Greg ran his hand over John's broad back as he bent. 

"No, you'll be wearing that 24/7 if they do find out. Mycie'll go nuts for it. We'll never get you off his face."

John saw a vivid mental image of that and groaned.

"Reckon?" 

"Yep. Lock'll want one. We could start a team. I'll put a goal up in the garden."

"Think you're funny, don't you, Lestrade?"

"Yep. Flip your skirt up for me. Up and over," said Greg, in a low, provoking tone.

John looked round balefully at him. "Dirty git."

Greg glared at him with mock sternness. "Do it, cheeky lass, or I'll put you over me knee and give you what for."

"For God's sake..." John rolled his eyes, but he knew such a thing was well within Greg's usual MO. He obligingly flipped the pleated fabric over his back to show off his best assets.

Greg moaned helplessly and palmed himself through his trousers. "Oooh, that's it..."

"Like that, do ya?" John sensed the tables turning as his partner hastily undid his flies and dropped his trousers.

"Yeah. Tight little bum in sensible navy knickers. Fuck me... Hold still." He placed a firm hand on John's lower back and released his cock from his pants with the other, rubbing it steadily up and down the crack of his lover's pert bum and across each rounded cheek.  "Ooh, lovely legs...," he crooned, running his hand down the backs of John's thighs.

John breathed a little faster and shook his head. "I'm sure this is wrong, you know."

"Ooh, so am I, love. Close your legs, I'm gonna put it...yeah, between your thighs..." 

"Whatever turns you on, mate." John clenched his legs tighter as Greg slotted himself in between his lightly haired thighs, grunting as he pushed, using John's hips to brace himself. 

"This bloody turns me on. Mmf. Now, pull your pants down just at the top. Just so I get a peek of your bumcheeks...," he instructed between little gasps of pleasure.

John complied, slowly drawing them down teasingly. "That enough?"

"Yep. Now slide them down a bit more...," prompted Greg. "Yeah. Bit more. Oh, Jesus, love, your arse. Just wanna sink my teeth into it," he groaned, his little thrusts getting more erratic and firm. John felt a bit jostled, but no less turned on.

"Hurry up, I'm getting a back ache. Ow!" he exclaimed at the stinging smack that was delivered to one unprotected cheek.

Greg's eyes were dilated with wolfish lust now. "None of your lip, missy. Let those little gym knickers fall to your ankles, and spread your legs further apart, so they stretch."

Greg stepped away as John straddled so the elastic waistband of his pants stretched taut between his feet.

"Like that?" he asked, blushing, glad his partner couldn't see his face from this position. Air kissed his open bumhole, and he heard Greg masturbating himself with a quick, jerky hand.

The back of his skirt slipped down to cover his modesty once more, but Greg was having none of it.

"Yeah. Push your skirt back up, bare that little bottom to me." 

John obeyed, face very hot now. "Funny feeling, having a hard-on under a skirt. New one on me," he said, distracting himself from his slight mortification. 

"Ooh, you're gonna get buggered so hard, you saucy netballing minx...," growled Greg, in full beast mode now, his cock hot and heavy in his hand. John was frustrated about being the observed object without so much as a slick hand or a probing finger to help him out in his horny and humiliated predicament.

"Are you gonna touch me, then, or just stare at it all night?! Ow! Greg, stop smacking me, that bloody hurt!"

"I said behave, didn't I? Now look back at me. Stay bending." Greg simply refused to give in to lip, and was long inured to ignoring it from all three of his mouthy lovers.

John huffed. 

"Fine." He glanced round with a furious look that ill-suited his position. Greg tutted in annoyance.

"Not with a bloody grumpy glare, thank you. Look back all wide-eyed and sorry, and, you know...," he said, suggestively, prompting John to give him what he wanted. 

"All impressed? Is that it? All 'ooh, Mr Lestrade, you're so big and my bum's so tight and my skirt’s all tiny’...," moaned John, with breathy sarcasm. 

"Yeah, that's the one. Suck your finger,” panted Greg, squeezing himself.

John unceremoniously plonked his forefinger in his mouth with bad grace. Greg flicked his arse with the back of his hand. "Like you mean it, dickhead."

"ThithisstupiddGweg!" John was irritated to hear himself whining, and wondered why he'd agreed to this nonsense in the first place.

Greg merely chuckled softly and moved forward to continue to rub his cock, sticky with precome, up and down John's cleft.

"Ooh, I like the lisp. Say something else. 'Ooh Gweg, you're thuch a howwible bathtard! Oh, thpank me’...," he mimicked in a high-pitched femme tone.

"Gweg! I mean, Greg! If I was Lock, I'd have kicked you in the shin and stormed off by now... Ooh...!"

Finally. Some friction. Greg's hand slipped round and began rubbing him while the very tip of his wet prick prodded at the centre of the bending netballer's exposed arsehole.

"Ssh, don't get cross, sweetcheeks. Let Greg cop a feel of you round the front. Ooh, blimey, she _is_ a big girl..." 

John snapped and Greg winced. "Ow!" 

"Nope, you've had it, mate." He stood up and let his skirt fall back over his sadly unused bum. 

Gerg rubbed his shin. "John! Aw, John, it was just getting fun!" he protested as John sat on the bed with his arms folded.

"Piss off, you're not taking it seriously," he accused, stripping off his vest and bib.

"Come on, Johnny, don't be like that," pleaded Greg, dismayed to see the white knee socks being removed as well. 

John leant to the floor and picked up his discarded pants. 

"There, you can have those sensible knickers to toss off into. Not getting up my arse tonight," he decreed, and swept from the room in a very Sherlockian huff, taking the remains of his costume with him. 

"Oi, don't flounce off in your little netball skirt!" called Greg, suppressing a giggle underneath his disappointment. His erection had not wilted and he followed his flouncing boyfriend out to the spare room where he'd stashed his kit bag.

"Pervert!" accused John, wiggling out of the flimsy piece of pleated fabric and letting it fall.

"Prick-tease!" threw back Greg, playfully, waving his hard-on in his direction.  

"Bugger off, Lestrade. Date Night's over!" John turned his back and Greg could not help but admire the view. Watson in his natural state - firm-buttocked, muscular-shouldered, sturdy-legged - was far superior to a naughty netballer. 

"No, it isn't. I'm sorry, love, I take it all back, it was a stupid idea."

"You were...teasing me," pouted John, mostly for effect. 

"Yeah. Horrible sod, aren't I? Let me make it up to you, love? Mm? My big strong rugby lad," he coaxed, coming up behind him and stroking his shoulders gently.

"Can't get round me that easy,” lied John.

Greg kissed at his neck, speaking in a soft, persuasive voice. "Let me have another go at my special request. I want... I _want_ to eat you out right here, and suck you off really deep, and then fuck you nice and slow and easy, until we're both all shagged out and stupid. How's that?"

John shivered. "Yeah, well... That sounds a bit more like it." 

"Oh, Johnnyboy. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to bend over again,” whispered Greg into his lover’s ear with a mucky chuckle.

John turned his head and grinned. "Whatever you want, mate. It's your Date Night, innit?"

John bent over the bed this time, lifting his hips in invitation. Greg grinned and bent himself to his partner's biteable backside, spreading the firm cheeks and breathing in the clean, masculine musk of him. He wetted his lips and press a firm, ardent smooch to the puckered opening.

John groaned lightly in the back of his throat, a helpless little noise, as he was lovingly rimmed. Greg licked and sucked, nibbled and nipped at the sensitive, tender skin, pushing his long, thick tongue inside him and wiggling it with brain-frying slowness. John opened his mouth and let out a continuous low moan as his whole body thrummed with taboo pleasure.

His arms reached out in front of him, grasping the bedclothes as Greg bit down hard on one arsecheek, shaking his head from side to side like a dog with a bone. John went limp and let himself be turned over onto his back. Greg looked hungrily up at him from his position at crotch level, half-on, half-off the bed. He licked his lips and, with a wicked glint, swallowed the quivering prick which jutted from his lover’s groin, taking it into his mouth in one go. He sucked with steady pressure and slow, languorous pulls, lavishing him with his full attention and best, tongue-twisting tricks. John raised his head and went cross-eyed as he watched himself being given such a sensuous, passionate blowjob. 

"Jesus Christ, I love it when you're feeling guilty... Aaah, ooh, Greg...!" 

Greg nodded in agreement and softly stroked at John's balls, loving their cool feel on his palm. He ran two fingers to the ridge of his perineum as he slurped away at his thick, blunt cock, and John hummed with satisfaction, a little note of desperation entering his voice.

Waves of near-climax rolled through him as Greg alternated slow and fast pumps of his head, but just as he got close, Greg pulled off, fumbled in the bedside drawer for the lube, and began slicking up John's hole, still damp and throbbing from his earlier oral ministrations. John did not take his eyes off him, marvelling at the man’s control and intensely romantic air. He'd gone from being lovingly teased, to being made love to, and he far preferred it. 

Greg beamed down at him with fire underlying the adoration. He said nothing, but raised John's legs onto his shoulders, then pressed two slippery fingers back into him, scissoring and massaging him from the inside. Then he lubed himself, running his hand the full length of his cock and squeezing out a few more drops of fluid from his slit for added wetness, before nudging the head against John's dilated hole.

As he was filled, John brought his hands up to Greg's nipples, flicking and twisting them, causing a zing of sensation to shoot through the older man's body and down into his groin. Greg panted roughly as he fell forwards into the pliant form beneath him, and John groaned as he bore down to take him completely in.

Greg delivered on his promise, fucking him slow and easy, but not exactly gently. His hips pushed forward rather than snapping and jerking, but every stroke was deep and deliberate and hard. John gasped with every thrust, rocking his hips up as he was ridden at a leisurely, measured pace. Greg pulled his partner's legs further up, gripping his ankles tightly, and re-angling his own hips. The adjusted position made John exclaim loudly as Greg laid siege to his prostate - until his cries became wails, mingling with Greg's deep grunts and low moans of satisfaction.

When Greg reached down to squeeze and stroke him in rhythm to his fucking, John lost it and threw his head back onto the mattress as he came, howling, over Greg's hand. Greg sped up once John's orgasm was upon him, and he thrust fully seated, barely pulling out at all, just nudging and pushing as hard as he could until he felt his partner clench and pulse around him. He tipped over the edge, screwing his eyes closed as he came deep inside that divine arse, shuddering and biting the inside of his cheek. John moaned along with him, riding out his aftershocks as he clutched at his lover's sweaty back.

They laughed together in low voices, snogging and running their hands through each other's hair in the afterglow. Greg rolled off and John whined as they lost contact. 

"Forgiven me, now?" coaxed Greg, grinning with mischievous charm. 

John's amused snort turned into a yawn. "Yeah. Course. Dirty sod. Don't mind doing it again really. The skirt and pants. Less of the mick-taking next time."

"Aw, love. You can always get your revenge when our next Date Night rolls around. Your turn to decide." 

John perked up, excitedly. "Oh, yeah! Ha. Well, I'll think of something. Might make you be my doggy for the day. It'd suit you."

Greg’s dark eyebrows hit his hairline. "You what?!"

"Yeah, collar and lead, nice little water bowl. Maybe one of those little rubber butt plugs with a tail on the end. Little ears on a hairband. Make you follow me round on all fours, fetch a ball. Lovely."

"You bloody wouldn't!"

John smirked with evil intent. "Bloody would. Got a few weeks to think on that, haven't you?" 

"Bastard Watson. Put him in a netball skirt and he becomes a sadist." 

"Good doggy...,” he replied, patting Greg’s head.

Greg harrumphed and sighed. "Well, as long as you don't take me to the vet to get me balls chopped off, I don't mind."

"Nah. I wouldn't shoot myself in the foot, would I? Not sure the lads would appreciate that one either. There'd be Holmes revenge."

Greg shuddered theatrically. "Nasty. One of the advantages of a quartet, innit? Always someone to leap to your rescue when one of you goes mad with power." 

John nodded, then leaned up on one elbow to look his partner in the eye.

"Quartet's definitely the absolute best. But I do like the duets in between."

Greg smiled warmly. "Me too, love. Now get in the shower, and I'll ring for a pizza."

John looked delighted. "The other advantage of the Watson-Lestrade duo. Illicit pizza. No Holmes disapproval or whining!"

"Mm. Illicit pizza. My favourite kind. Beer in the fridge an' all." 

"Oh, you beauty! God, I love Date Night with you."

"Me too, love. Not missing them a bit?" enquired Greg, knowingly.

John huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, always. But it's nice to do a bit of ordinary bloke stuff. Netball notwithstanding. Any night in with you is a good 'un. Love you, you know."

Greg raised a warning finger. "Oi, don't get soppy or I'll tell Myc."

"Pfft, Myc's the soppiest one!" giggled John.

"I know! Love you too. I know you don't need to hear it as much as some insecure little sods. But I do."

John kissed him and slapped at his arse to encourage him up.

"Come on, you soppy bastard. Illicit pizza with extra jalapenos, please." 

"Yep. Whatever you want, love." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely to hear from you, as ever. x


	2. Greg and Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft gives up his request to Greg, but can he handle what's in store?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've given Greg two nights, but this occurred to me as a very Mystrade scenario. Other pairings coming soon...

Mycroft and Gregory's Date Night had finally arrived. It had been postponed for a few weeks due to unavoidable work commitments. Trouble with the British Ambassador to Paraguay - caught taking backhanders to speed up passport applications for known heroin traffickers. Mycroft had been profoundly irritated by the senseless debacle, and hating having his private life disrupted by other people's stupidity above all things. He had been tense and grumpy all week, and almost forgot that he had something to look forward to. It had been a tiring and unnecessarily stressful time for him.  

"Just you and me tonight, love," said Greg, over breakfast in Hampstead. He was relieved it was finally Saturday and the pressure was off his very over-worked, overly-diligent partner.

Mycroft gave the first genuine smile Greg thought he'd seen all week. "Yes, dear. I am looking forward to it immensely. What are John and Lock doing in our absence?" 

"Having a night in, I think. Shagging on the sofa, I expect. They'll be knackered from taking Rosie to the city farm. Sherlock in a city farm! Can you imagine?"

Mycroft shook his head despairingly as he sipped his Earl Grey. "He'll get bitten by a goat, Gregory. He always gets bitten by a goat. They go for the coat, you know."

"Can't wait to hear all about it, can you?" chuckled Greg.

"It'll be preferable to the last time we declared a Date Night - and I still heartily disapprove of that ghastly term, by the way - when they went after the gang stealing Viagra for sale on the black market."

"Yeah, that was one of their better missions."

"Not least because Sherlock took one."

"He took four, love."

Mycroft's eyebrows raised in alarm. "I knew it! That was a shattering 36 hours."

"Brilliant, wasn't it?" mused Greg, remembering the Case of the Permanent Erection. 

Mycroft glared in mock-disapproval, recalling that particularly interesting noise his brother had made when he came for the fifth time. "I decline to comment. What are we going to do with _our_ evening? I know it's my turn for a request, but, frankly, Gregory, I'd rather not decide anything just now. Could I swap you a turn? You can owe me the next two, and I'll think of something extra special next time."

He cast a rather imploring look.

Greg tutted sympathetically and stroked his obviously exhausted lover's arm from across the table. "Oh, love. Need someone else in control for a bit?"

Mycroft nodded and his shoulders sagged in relief. "Not someone, Gregory. You."

"Good. All right. Cinema, and dinner out, maybe?" tried Greg, testing the water.

Mycroft cringed a little. "Oh, I don't know. Don't be angry, but I'm not sure I can face going out in public. I've had it with people this week."

Greg racked his brains. "Hmm. Diogenes? I could make you come in the library again..."

"That was a rotten trick. You know I can't keep silent when you..."

"Suck your cock in the Reference Only section with my finger up your bum?" said Greg, helpfully. And not at all just because it made his so-very-proper partner blush so fetchingly. 

"Mm. That."

A sudden thought occurred to Greg. A whim that had crossed his mind many times before, but had yet to be acted upon. 

"Do you know what I want to do, Mycie Holmes?" 

Mycroft went still. He knew that tone. "Oh, God, what?"

"I want... to make you come in your pants."

"Oh, dear Lord." 

"In public."

"Gregory!" If Mycroft were wearing pearls, he would have clutched them in horror.

"Think I could?"

"I know you could. But I won't allow it." He was determined to be resolute in the face of such a beastly, wanton, sexy... No, utterly shameful suggestion. 

"No?" enquired Greg, neutrally, holding back the gleeful smirk he so wanted to unleash. 

Mycroft stammered through his negotiations, but found his powers considerably weakened after such a relentless professional week. "You can do it in the privacy of the bedroom. I'll leave my clothes on and you can..."

Greg spared him the trouble. "Oh, I will leave your clothes on. But I want it somewhere out in the open. Where people are."

"It's too risky, Gregory! It's irresponsible. How about a compromise? You can do it in the back of the car. But with John driving. We'll pretend he's..."

Greg shook his head firmly. "Nice try. But no."

"Gregory!" Mycroft Holmes was almost whining. Almost. 

Greg pinned him with a dark, lascivious stare. 

"Come on. Let me... It gives me the right horn. Just the thought of you having to hold it all back, controlling your expressions so nobody knows. Maybe I'm rubbing you off with my foot, under the table at dinner..."

"Oh, y-yes?" said Mycroft, trying and failing to sound indifferent.

"Yeah. Or I'm standing next to you on the Tube or something, just frotting my arse against you..."

Greg was apparently lost to fantasy now. 

Mycroft shuddered at the very notion. 

"I'm not getting on the Underground, for you or any man, I don't care how much I love you!"

But Greg was on a roll.

"Jesus, just the idea. You losing it, and no-one knowing but me. And you a bit ashamed of yourself. Fuck, yeah, I want you all ashamed and dirty, and embarrassed for me..."

"Oh, Gregory, please don’t..."

"You always come such a lot, don't you? Always make a big, big mess for me.”

“I don’t want anyone else to…witness that!”

"Ah ha! Now, there's an idea..." A sudden look of ‘eureka’ flickered across Greg's eager face. 

Mycroft's stomach fluttered with nerves. "I know that look. That look is trouble. That look is more trouble than Baby Brother!"

"Ain't it just?” smirked Greg, wolfishly. “Right. See you later. Got a few arrangements to make. Be good." And with that, he rose, kissed his lover on the top of his auburn head, and left, leaving a very baffled and anxious Holmes behind.

"Gregory, what are you...?! Oh, bloody hell." 

***

Greg was out for part of the day, leaving Mycroft to potter about the house and relax. When the evening came, Greg gave his instructions, and waited for Mycroft to emerge from his room in evening attire. He was smartly dressed himself, in a dark blue suit and a blood red shirt which Mycroft had had made for him on Jermyn Street. Despite Mycroft's abhorrence of the general public, he had ceded control of Date Night, and they were going out after all. 

The elder and most sartorially refined Holmes brother came downstairs in a slim-cut black suit, with a matching waistcoat, an emerald green paisley Ascot tie at his throat, and a matching handkerchief peeking from his jacket pocket. His hair was neatly slicked back and he smelled edible. Greg thought he looked edible too and said so. 

Mycroft flushed, as he always did at sincere compliments. Greg stood, kissed him, and rather excitedly led the way to the private car outside. The driver's partition was up, and there was no chance of being overheard. One did not eavesdrop on Mycroft Holmes if one knew what was good for one. 

"I presume you're going to tell me at some point where we're going?" queried Mycroft, raising a neatly threaded eyebrow.

Greg smiled sweetly. "You presume correctly. Taking you to the Albert Hall. To the Proms. Do you say 'a Prom' when it's just one?"

"I'm not sure one does. But, Gregory, how did you get a ticket at such short notice, when these things sell out so quickly?" He was impressed and very flattered at the thoughtfulness of the gesture.

"How do you think, daft lad? I dropped your name like a teenage waiter drops a tray of drinks. They'd have heard the clang in Whitehall. I know you think the acoustic is rubbish at the Albert Hall, but I have my reasons. It's Beethoven's 9th. Which you like, right?"

Mycroft held a hand to his heart with performative delight. "Oh, darling man. Yes. I very much do. It is quite simply the best symphony ever written. How sweet of you to remember." 

"S'my job, innit?"

Mycroft smiled charmingly and reached for Greg’s hand. "No, but I'm so grateful."

"Got us a very nice private box, so not surrounded by Goldfish, all right? Apart from me. Just us. Bit of catering too. Champers and all those posh nibbly bits you like."

"Aren't you a dear? I hope you bashed my credit card."

"Nope. On me, doll. But..."

Greg gripped his lover’s smooth hand firmly, to ensure his full attention.

The redhead’s eyebrows raised, waiting for the catch. "But?"

"But my motivations aren't all pure and generous, are they...?"

Realisation dawned. "Oh. Gregory. No!"

"Oh, Gregory, yes!” said the silver-haired D.I., with elation. He fixed his lover with an intense, scorching look, dropping his voice low.

“Gonna make you come in your pants in the Albert Hall, Mycie Holmes. Gonna make you lose it during a nice loud bit. Or maybe a quiet bit, so it's harder for you." 

"Gregory, you can't mean it! I will resist you with all the might of the Holmes grey matter," retorted his tormented lover, squaring his jaw with determination.

Greg raised a dark, skeptical eyebrow. "Will you, now? Resist me? Think cold thoughts and hope I'll give up?” 

Mycroft shivered, and knew better than to reply when there was a chance his voice would emerge as a squeak.

Greg leaned in across the car seat, and whispered hotly while his lover blushed red from hairline to throat.

“We’re nearly there, love. As soon as the lights go down, it’s game on. I’m gonna have you coming in your pants at the bloody symphony, sat in a posh seat where people can see you. Wanna see you biting back your noises, painfully hard...just desperate to get it out and stroke it, or put it in my hand. But you can't, because someone might catch you, Mycie. You can't make a sound, can't even double up when it happens, or touch it at all. You’re just gonna spunk off inside your pants for me."

Mycroft’s breathing turned ragged and shallow. He closed his eyes and tried to gain some semblance of control.

"Gregory, stop it, you're a monster! I won’t even be able to leave the car in this state.” He indicated the large tent at the front of his smart trousers.

"I know. I want you to not be able to help it, love. I want that beautiful prick of yours to jump and twitch under your fancy suit, and I want you all sticky and uncomfortable in your bloody pants until I get you home. Then let me peel 'em off you and lick you clean..."

Mycroft’s head hit the backrest of his seat and he squirmed, rotating his hips helplessly.

"Have mercy, Gregory, I beg you!"

Mycroft reached for his fly, but Greg slapped his hand.

“No cheating. We’re here now. Let that go down a bit first, and we’ll see if music soothes the savage beast, eh?”

“Don’t you misquote Congreve thinking it's Shakespeare at me, Gregory Lestrade,” chided Mycroft, petulantly. “You go first, I need a moment.”

Mycroft shoved his chuckling lover out of the car, pulled himself together and adjusted his prominent erection to something resembling respectability, and then followed him into the venue.

They passed through the chattering crowds and made their way up to the Grand Tier, one floor above the stalls. The boxes here all had private doors, and could comfortably seat twelve people. A section at the back had a side table, where canapes and champagne awaited them. Plush red curtains hung at the sides, and walls separated them from the next door boxes. Seated at the very front, they would be in full view of the entire auditorium in the round. But if they sat back in the seats further into what was essentially a small, private room, they would not be so easily observed.

Mycroft’s hands fluttered nervously around the stem of his champagne flute. With the house lights up, he felt exposed and guilty already. Surely everyone here must know he was about to be forced to commit a lewd act of public indecency? Greg saw his internal conflict, and placed a calming hand upon his lover’s waist. Winking with outrageous flirtation, he clinked their glasses together, and scoffed down a few tiny bits of smoked salmon.

“What are these mini pancake things? Like them.”

“Blinis, darling. Try the ones with caviar. Delicious,” said Mycroft, attempting to get himself on an even keel.

They demolished them, and Greg sensed the tension in his lover’s shoulders diminishing. He couldn’t have picked a better setting for his plan. Mycie was in his natural element here, and Greg would take unscrupulous advantage of it.

They sat two rows back from the very front of the box, shielded from the sides. The lights went down and plunged them into just enough darkness. The full orchestra took their places and tuned up. Greg was surprised to see a hundred-strong choir as well, then recalled from a cursory glance at the programme that this was known as the Choral Symphony. All the more cover for his illicit activity. The conductor emerged to vast applause. And it began.

Greg was almost distracted from his mission by the music. Intensely complex and melodic; full of soul-soaring passion and muscularity. Bloody loud and bloody good.

Somewhere in the middle of the First Movement, Greg made his own first move.

He sat with his hand on his lover’s knee, stroking very slowly up his clothed thigh. Mycroft did not look at him, but Greg heard his small intake of breath. He ran his hand further up, palm flat, tipping it to the warm inner thigh, and just holding it there for a while. Mycroft shifted minutely, spreading his legs a tiny bit apart. He sat with one arm folded across his body, his other arm propped upon it, leaning his face into his hand in an attitude of intense concentration. Inwardly, he was focused solely upon the warm, square palm which was so very nearly brushing against his balls.

Greg placed the programme on Mycroft’s knee, and he took the hint, holding it open in front of him, pretending to consult it. Behind it, Greg went to work.

His hand slipped upwards, and Mycroft gasped a tiny gasp as it made contact with his half-hard prick. Already turned on by the earlier vehicle-based provocation, it twitched and filled with minimal contact. He momentarily closed his eyes, unable to resist the thrum of pleasure as Greg rubbed his palm over him, very slowly, barely moving his arm. Mycroft bit his lip and exhaled a shuddering breath. His overly sensitive glans pressed against his fly, and he felt a telltale wetness in his underwear.

His hands gripped the programme tightly, as Greg rubbed a little harder and quicker. Mycroft’s heart seemed to be pounding in his ears, almost louder than the timpani booms filling the concert hall. His cock was fully hard now, restricted and desperate to be properly touched. The alternating featherlight strokes and firm drags upon it were maddening. Not enough friction to get anywhere with.

Just as he felt he was easing into the sensation and had a chance at mastering it, it stopped. The First Movement came to an end.  The auditorium hummed with people shifting in their seats and murmuring. Mycrot did not dare move or even look sidelong at Gregory.

When the Second Movement began – faster and more energetic than the first - the teasing hand resumed instantly, mirroring the orchestra’s approach; Greg rubbed _molto vivace_. Mycroft dropped his head back a little, now gripping the side of his seat with one hand, holding the programme flat upon his lap with the other. The glossy publication moved with Greg’s hand underneath it. Very unsubtly.

Greg kept his eyes front. To all intents and purposes, they were simply two men enjoying the best symphony ever composed. Even if people directly observed them, they’d be hard pushed to tell from first glance that one was wanking off the other through devious means.

Mycroft bit his lip as the questing hand changed to fingers – two fingers, which traced the long curved outline of his rampantly stiff prick with infuriating lightness, then harder, then focused their attention on the ridge of his plump head. Even through two layers of fabric, Greg could feel how prominent and swollen it was.

He rubbed at it with tiny movements, focused with laser-point accuracy on the sweet spot of his lover’s fraenulum. Mycroft gasped and panted in time to the wild violins, almost forgetting to control himself in the familiar _pianissimo_ passages.

By the time the Third Movement came along, he was sweating and leaking profusely. Greg left him almost entirely alone during this quieter sequence, generously giving him a chance to catch his breath, but not-so-generously prolonging his agony. Occasionally, he reached out to stimulate him, but skittered his hand away at random intervals.

Mycroft frowned, wondering if he had in fact given up after all, feeling a bit disappointed underneath his relief.

He ought to have known better.

He was teased to the very edge of tolerance throughout the short Fourth Movement. When the Choir finally began for the Fifth and final, Mycroft felt as though his own voice might join them in the tenor section. Greg’s hand opened his fly, insinuating itself just over the top of the significant bulge in his pants. It did not slip through the gap of his underwear, but gripped and squeezed at his sizeable, curved cock through the thin fabric, clenching at him with on-again, off-again pressure, making him pulse and throb almost painfully. His face burned, his balls drew up tight and he bit down on his lip hard to stop from crying out.

_All these people around… All this music… Gregory’s hand, Gregory hardly looking at me, and, oh, Gregory making me, making me…_

As though sensing the change in atmosphere, Greg leaned in to his silently frantic lover’s shell-like ear.

He spoke in an almost inaudible whisper, as though sharing some academic point about Beethoven.

“I’m going to make you come in your pants, Mycie. Right here. You. Filthy. Little. Boy.”

Greg kept his eyes on him now, boring into him with grim intensity as he masturbated him. Mycroft cast a desperate and abashed little look at him - a confused plea in his wide eyes.

_Don’t. Please. Oh, please, Gregory. Make me._

An upbeat and familiar anthem blared out from the stage, and Greg, as triumphant as the chorus, felt his lover’s hips twitch and his upper body jerk involuntarily. The straining prick, searingly hot even through cotton underwear, jumped under his hand, and he heard a tense, barely suppressed groan from deep inside his lover’s broad chest, and a tiny, cute squeak in the back of his throat.

When the crescendo came, so did Mycroft Holmes. He screwed his eyes closed, his face crumpling into stunned, outrageous pleasure as his semen shot up and out of him. His tormented cock pulsed and spent copiously all over the inside of his underwear; his whole body juddered and shook as he orgasmed in public for the first ever time.

Gasping for breath, he leaned back in his chair, seeming simply stunned. He cast an astounded look at Greg, who grinned with feral pride and withdrew his hand. Mycroft shook his head in wonder, then cast anxious glances around. No-one seemed to be watching them. He let himself relax, and smiled crookedly, mouth twitching at the edges against the hysterical laugh that threatened to bubble up.

His adrenaline high was interrupted by a strong grip on his upper arm. Greg was glaring at him from up close, eyes like coals.

“Up. Now,” he ordered, quietly, pulling at Mycroft’s arm. Mycroft frowned and grimaced as he rose.

_What now?_

The concert was going to end fairly soon, but it was not over yet. Neither was Date Night, apparently.

Without a word, Greg dragged his lover from the box. Mycroft tried to walk normally, wincing at the cold, stickiness coating the inside of his pants. He blushed as they passed various ushers and programme sellers while his own semen dripped down his balls and inner thighs.

Greg swiftly took them up three flights of stairs, to the Gents at the very top of the building. He gave the place a recce, saw that it was empty, and shoved Mycroft into the largest toilet stall. He locked the door behind him, and placed a finger to his lips, quite unnecessarily.

Mycroft frowned disconcertedly, and frantically shook his head. ‘Too risky’, he mouthed, horrified. He briefly calculated how much money it would take to pay off any potential blackmailers.

Greg quelled him with a ferocious glare, span him round to face the door, and whispered fiercely into his ear from behind.

“Not enough. Wanna give you an arseful as well. Quicker you let me, less chance of gettin’ caught. Trust me, and behave.”

Mycroft’s head fell forward onto the toilet door and he leant on his forearms, utterly gone with the ecstatic high of Gregory in full command, and the sheer, shocking danger of this little novelty.

Greg quickly undid both their trousers, slipping Mycroft’s sticky pants down to mid-thigh, and releasing his cock from his own underwear just enough for the purpose. Mycroft bent over as far as he could manage in the confined space. Then Greg spat onto his palm, wiped up some of the ejaculate from his lover’s inner thigh, and lubed himself with perfunctory haste. He eased a none-too-gentle finger up Mycroft’s waiting hole, already slackened by his orgasm. Quickly, without niceties, he pushed his aching cock into the tight, clutching heat. His head swam, but he kept his ears alert for sounds of interruption even as he drove himself in until he was completely engulfed.

Mycroft released a shuddering, broken breath and pushed back, urgently trying to be filled and fucked and satisfied. Gregory would not be gainsaid, and he had absolutely no desire to resist him in anything, especially not when his arsehole was being so beautifully stretched by the randy brute.

Greg obliged his lover’s mute request – _fuck me_ – then thrust and hammered into him with fast strokes, pulling his hips down to lodge his cock deeper. He angled himself upwards - the position rudimentary and awkward, the technique unrefined and indelicate - as he took what he wanted. Mycroft gave it all willingly, seeing stars while his arse was roughly, passionately used.

The knowledge that time was of the essence and the fear of being caught only heightened both their senses. Greg felt a primal, caveman thrill, and it was only a matter of minutes before he gave one last, brutal thrust. Liquid pleasure shot through his core and he shook himself to release, filling his writhing lover to the brim

Their harsh uneven gasps were the only sound in the toilet stall, until they suddenly heard distant applause and doors opening from outside. Working quickly, Greg tucked himself away, without bothering to wipe either of them down.

Mycroft grimaced again at how utterly debauched he was. Sticky and leaking, front and back. His pants were a write-off.

Greg checked there were no giveaway stains, then opened the stall door and shoved Mycroft out to the sinks. A mere few seconds later, the door opened and men started lining up for the urinal. Mycroft had the sense to pretend to be adjusting his hair in the mirror, splashing some water on his face to disguise the outwards signs of exertion. He mopped himself with his handkerchief and tried to control his still-racing heartbeat.

Greg flushed the toilet, and emerged, looking for all the world like a respectable concert-goer. Mycroft watched him wash his hands, and smooth his eyebrows in the mirror. Greg caught his eye with a caddish, conspiratorial smirk, winked, and left.

Mycroft followed him out in a daze, with still-warm spunk dribbling from his slightly tender arse, wondering what the hell had just happened. When they reached the car, he let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

Greg sat in the back seat, doing a very convincing impression of the smuggest man in Europe. His lover found he could not begrudge it.

When Mycroft sat, he winced and made a rather uncharacteristic whine of disgust.

“Eurgh!” he exclaimed, as he squished about.

Greg couldn’t help the very un-brutish giggling fit that infected him.

“Good symphony, weren’t it?” he said, wiping his eyes and yawning unexpectedly. 

Mycroft raised a sardonic brow. “I have absolutely no idea, Gregory,” he said, aridly, in full self-possession once again. “I think I must have missed it.”

Greg cocked his head in mock-casualness. “Yeah? Shame. We’ll have to listen to it at home, then.” He reached for his lover’s hand and stroked it lightly, chuckling still.

Mycroft snorted. “I shan’t ever be able to listen to it again without disgracing myself. Though, frankly, I can’t think of a better soundtrack." 

Greg looked at him enquiringly.

“Darling,” said Mycroft, with deep affection shining in his eyes, “You brought me off during Ode to Joy! _Freude, schöner Götterfunken, Tochter aus Elysium…_ ‘Joy, beautiful spark of the gods, daughter from Elysium’…,” he translated. “Joy, you see. I can’t think of anything more apt for a Date Night with you, Gregory.”

“Oh,” said Greg, blushing himself now. “Well, yeah. Thought it sounded familiar. Even if I didn’t properly understand it, the music sounded pretty joyful, anyway. And you make me… I mean, you’re a bloody symphony yourself, Mycie, love.”

“Ah, Gregory," said Mycroft, smiling softly, with a glow of profound knowledge. "You properly understand everything.” 

Greg huffed a small, self-deprecating laugh, shook his head at his incredible partner, then leaned into his shoulder. He felt a cool hand come up to his head and stroke at him soothingly. They closed their eyes - sticky, and content, and in love - as they sped through the night, and back home to Hampstead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do hope you enjoy Beethoven as much as I do. ;) x


	3. Sherlock and John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's turn to make a request of John. He wants to get caught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Sherlock are up next, for those who miss the Holmescest...

Captain John Watson was under siege in his own home. For weeks now, he’d suffered a continual bombardment of word-grenades, launched with regularity and consistency, day and night.

“Remember Date Night, John.”

“Don’t forget Date Night next week, John.”

“John, it’s Date Night this week!”

“Date Night’s tomorrow, John, remember?”

The refrain ran through his mind unremittingly, even when he was doing something as innocuous as tidying the kitchen. The perpetrator of this relentless barrage entered, on the hunt for afternoon biscuits.

“It’s tonight, John,” said Sherlock, casually. “Date Night tonight. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

A man of great reserves of patience for the most part, John felt his last threadbare nerve snap.

“I KNOW, Sherlock! I know! Stop saying it!”

He slammed the tea towel he’d been using to wipe up biscuit crumbs onto the table.

“So you _haven’t_ forgotten?” said his very nonplussed flatmate, just checking.

John was incredulous.

“How the bloody hell could I have done?! You’ve been bending my ear about it for a fortnight! Leaving notes in the fridge, and on the loo roll, and pinned to the inside of all my pants! Been dreaming it all week. ‘Don’t forget Date Night. Don’t forget Date Night’. Over and over again! Bloody nagging little pest!”

Sherlock frowned, unoffended. “I’m not a nagging little pest, I’m just diligent.”

“You’re a broken record. I’ll be bloody glad when Date Night’s over!” shouted John.

Sherlock’s face fell and he moodily bit into a chocolate Hobnob.

“Oh. OK.” He turned to leave, and John felt like he’d kicked a puppy.

“Oh… Come here, you silly bugger,” he said, sighing and gathering his lanky lover to him. Sherlock sagged into him, still crunching and showering his lover’s shoulder with crumbs.

“Shouty, John. Too shouty,” he admonished.

John nodded, sympathetically, and kissed the sulky man’s shoulder. “Yeah. Sorry for snapping, mate, but it’s been a bit…”

“Bit much?” asked Sherlock, considering this proposition.

“Yeah, bit much. If you think about it.”

Sherlock did think about it, and saw that, perhaps, John had a point. Whispering to him in his sleep to reinforce the message subliminally had probably exceeded the bounds of reasonable behaviour. He suspected Mycroft and Greg would think so too, and hoped John wouldn’t mention it.

“Yep. OK. Just been all, you know…”

“All excited?”

Sherlock nodded, eager and bright once more.

“Yeah, that’s the one. Been _ages_ since Date Night.”

It had been a little longer than usual, and John heard the frustration in his partner’s complaint. He melted, as he always did when Lock wore his true feelings so close to the surface.

“Aw. Well, I’ve been looking forward to it too. Never gonna forget it, so don’t need to check so much, OK? Maybe next time just remind me once a week. Set a timer for yourself or something.”

John grinned and ran his hands down Sherlock’s long spine, then up under his shirt to caress his lower back. Sherlock purred.

“Mmm. OK, John. Glad we’re both excited. But it’s my turn, isn’t it? To ask,” said Sherlock, a note of anticipation entering his voice as he was stroked and calmed by the good doctor’s soothing hands. He wiggled his hips against him a little, making sure his hard-on was noticed – as if it hadn’t been already.

John chuckled.

“Oh, so it is. That’s why you’ve been bouncing off the walls. Got something special in mind, have you?”

Sherlock slightly hid his face in his lover’s shoulder, and slid his hands down the back of his trousers and pants, to cup and squeeze John’s muscular arse.

“Not really,” said Sherlock, clamming up. 

John hummed warmly. “Right, come on, then. What are you after? Something very dirty?”

He tried to imagine what it might be this time, but the answer surprised him.

"I want you to catch me masturbating, John," confessed Sherlock, in a husky voice.

John chuckled. "You mean, you want me to come home at any given moment on any given day?"

“John!” Sherlock pulled his hands out of his trousers and slapped at his bum for teasing.

John drew the lightly flushing detective up to meet his eye again.

“Explain,” he said, smiling. “What’s the angle?”

Sherlock’s face lit up into a naughty grin. He loved explaining.

“OK. You’re my flatmate.”

“Er, yeah. I am. My name's on the contract and everything.”

“I mean, you’re my new flatmate, and you’re a bit of an uptight sod.”

“Right,” said John, uncertainly.

“And you come home, and you catch me at it.”

“Sounds lovely, but not sure I get the appeal, babe. I just see you wanking and I, what, leap on top of you? Not as rude as I thought it would be, but whatever you fancy.”

“No, John. I mean, you catch me and you’re _appalled._ ”

John’s eyebrows raised as he saw what his partner was driving at.

“Oh, I see. Am I maybe a bit cross?” He smirked, knowing the sort of muckiness that got his ever-horny detective off.

“Now you’re catching on, Watson,” said Sherlock, with professional approval. “You are indeed a bit cross. You are very cross. You’re also very turned on by the sight, against your will. Because I’m so sexy, you understand.”

John laughed, affectionately, and scratched his head as he considered his role. “Oh, I do understand that, yeah. OK. Uptight, puritanical Watson catches naughty Lockie having one off the wrist, and gives him a bit of a telling off, and then…”

“And then we’ll just see what transpires,” said Sherlock, holding up a hand to prevent further plotting. Better to leave some room for improvisation, he felt.

“Got you,” confirmed John. “On a completely unrelated note, I’m off out a bit later, round 6ish. Taking Rosie round to Uncle Greg’s for a sleepover. Myc’s made a lasagne, so I’m told. Should be back around, ooh, let’s say, exactly 7.15pm.

“Fine. I’ll be here. Doing not very much at all.”

“Glad to hear it, mate.”

***

At 7pm, Sherlock was doing not very much at all. Just lying facedown on top of his bed in the dark, with no clothes on, humping the mattress. The friction from the topsheet and the naughtiness of the activity had kept him hard and needy for the last 20 minutes. It had taken all his focus to prolong it, and he’d started slowly, stopping at intervals to keep himself wanting, but not too near to the edge. He’d kicked his duvet off, and lay fully exposed, though of course, there was no-one there to observe his illicit activities.

At exactly 7.15, the front door opened, and his flatmate returned.

He frotted harder, lifting his hips up, making sure his arse was presented to the door of his room. He leaned on his forearms a little, arched his back, and with slow, steady thrusts, pushed and dragged the tip of his aching prick back and forth over his bed. Better get it over with quickly, before John, the new flatmate, came looking for him.

“Sherlock, where are you? Have you gone to bed already?” 

A sudden light fell across the room, sweeping across his bare body, and, he imagined, highlighting his wobbling bottom. He heard a sharp, shocked gasp and his movements faltered.

“Oh, my God - what are you doing?!” whispered John. Sherlock sensed he was not impressed.

He quickly collapsed onto his front, hoping the other man hadn’t seen too much. He blushed and lay very still and flat, suddenly very self-conscious of his nakedness.

“Erm, nothing!” he said, into the pillow, cringing a little.

“It doesn’t look like nothing to me!” said John, louder now, stepping into the room with determination.

“Get out, please!” begged Sherlock, still too mortified to look round.

“No, I demand you tell me the truth. What do you think you’re doing?! Turn round and face me!”

Sherlock reluctantly turned over, revealing his stiff, sticky state to his furious flatmate.

“I… You know what I was doing… I was…,” he indicated his crotch, shamefaced.

John’s face was horrified, with an underlying hint of badly-disguised curiosity. He put his hands on his hips and shook his head in deep disapproval.

“Masturbating. You were masturbating, weren’t you?”

Sherlock nodded, bashfully. “Yes.”

John came over to the bed, his face contorting with apparent disgust. His flatmate was very angry, but Sherlock couldn’t help notice the bulge in his jeans. He licked his lips at the sight, and at the man’s strong forearms, revealed below the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt.

“Oh, good God. Is this what you do when I’m not here?”

“S-sometimes. Don’t you do it as well?” asked Sherlock, innocent and wide-eyed.

John was red-faced with outrage.

“I certainly do not! I have self-control. And morals. Look at you, it’s disgusting. I don’t pay rent to put up with this sort of thing. I never would have moved in if I knew my flatmate would be a…a filthy degenerate!” he ranted.

Sherlock sat up, imploring. “I’m not a degenerate! Honestly. I just…”

“You just…rub yourself on top of your bed, in the nude, when I’m not here to prevent it!"

“It…it gets all hard. I can’t help it!” he whined, trying to defend himself. It didn’t seem to be working.

John regarded him with a stony expression. “Can’t you, indeed? Or do you just not want to?”

“Feels nice,” said Sherlock, in a sheepish voice.

“I don’t care how it feels, Sherlock Holmes. You mustn’t do it anymore.” John pointed his finger and wagged it slightly.

Sherlock suppressed his giggles, and John looked briefly away, his mouth quirking up at the corners.

“But John! I like it.” He smiled charmingly. Perhaps his stern flatmate responded to charm and could be defused by a little sweet eyelash fluttering.

Evidently not. The man crossed his arms, resolute and unmoved.

“That is not an excuse. Do you do it a lot?” he asked, challengingly.

“Mm-hm. Yes,” admitted Sherlock, seeing no reason to lie.

“Every week?”

“Every day,” came the matter-of-fact, and profoundly shocking answer.

John’s eyebrows hit the ceiling. “Every day?! God, it’s worse than I thought.”

“Sometimes more than once,” confessed the maverick masturbator.

John shook his head grimly.

“I don’t know why you’re looking so proud of yourself, young man. It’s not acceptable. It’s disgraceful, and dirty, and very, very sinful.”

“I don’t think so!” exclaimed the disgraceful not-so-young man.

“No, that’s the trouble. Perhaps you need a lesson in basic decency and good manners! Lying here, rubbing yourself to completion on your own bed, when I’m out.”

“Not always when you’re out either…,” muttered Sherlock.

John’s voice rose in pitch and volume.

“What?! You mean you do this when I’m in the next room? Polluting the flat with your obscene behaviour. I won’t have it, Sherlock. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, John. Can I… Can I just do it with my hand instead? I won’t rub off on the bed anymore, if it bothers you, I promise,” said Sherlock, pleadingly. He reached out to touch himself and his hand was slapped away. The resolute flatmate was having none of it.

“What a question. No. You certainly can’t. You can sleep on your back, with your hands above the covers from now on. Anymore of this and I’ll have to move out!”

Sherlock swiftly came up onto his knees. John stared at his bobbing, still-erect prick, and swallowed hard.

“No, don’t move out, please,” begged Sherlock. “I like you living here. And I need your rent money. Please. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll try to stop.”

John’s resolve was as firm and stubborn as the erection currently trying to escape his pants. He held it together for appearance’s sake. Too soon to let the randy little wanker have it all his own way.

“I don’t believe you’ll stop,” he replied. “I think you’re an unrepentant little wanton. As soon as the door closes, you’ll be back here, _frigging_ yourself in this decadent manner. Look at you. You’re not even sorry.”

John was quite pleased with his performance. Channelling a bit of Mycroft helped with this sort of thing. 

Sherlock huffed and shook his head defiantly. “No, I’m not sorry! It’s lovely, and I won’t stop. You should try it sometime. Maybe that would stop you being such an uptight, frigid little prig!” he shouted, going on the offensive.

John went ominously still. “What did you say…?”

“I said, you’re uptight, frigid, and priggish. Oh, and pompous, and a killjoy, AND a boring prude!” Sherlock’s eyes flashed triumphantly.

John, with a face like thunder - aside from giveaway dilated pupils - growled in the back of his throat, and pushed his recalcitrant flatmate back onto the mattress. He rolled him roughly over onto his front, straddled his lower legs, and pressed the taller man firmly down between the shoulder blades. Then he used the other hand to deliver his moral lesson. 

“I’m sorry, John! Ow! Sorry. Please don’t!” wailed Sherlock, giving a convincing enough show of struggle as John’s firm hand fell repeatedly onto his exposed bottom.

“Too late for sorries, you dirty boy.”

“Ouch. John, don’t! Ooh…!”

“Bad boy. Such a bad, naughty little beast…,” panted John, heatedly, using the motion of his hand to lead him into a bit of unsubtle thrusting.  

“Ow… Ah! Stop, you’re hurting me!” squealed Sherlock, playing up nicely.

“Good!”

Sherlock almost laughed at the delighted tone in his partner’s voice. His hips canted up and down as he was expertly punished.

“Oh my God, you’re getting off on this too, aren’t you? Having your bottom smacked?”

‘What gave it away?’ is what Sherlock wanted to say. But he didn’t want to spoil the atmosphere just yet, and settled for an unconvincing “Nn-no!”

“See if you like it harder.”

Somewhat predictably, he did.

“J-ohhnn… Fuck. Oh, yes…”

“Are you going to come off while I spank you, Sherlock? Are you?” taunted the uptight, frigid prig, enjoying himself immensely. “Gonna despoil your sheets while I make your arse sore?”

Perhaps obscenity really was infectious. His language did seem to be degenerating somewhat…

“Fuck, John. Do it  _harder_ …”

The boy was begging for it. It seemed wrong not to oblige.

“Mucky pup. Teach you a bloody lesson…”

Sherlock moaned as John continued to lay down hot and heavy smacks to his rapidly pinkening flesh. John was biting his lip, barely gripping onto his self-control now as his lover, sweaty and moaning, writhed and pushed his bum up to meet the relentless blows.

“God, you’re a mess. Sweaty, frantic little mess. Gonna make a mess too, aren’t you? Big mess…”

“Yeah. Is it making you hard?”

The impertinent question stalled John’s hand.

“How dare you ask that?!”

“Can feel it. Can smell it. Like the smell of you, John,” came the taunting voice, muffled lightly by pillows. 

“Be quiet,” he said, sounding a little unsure of himself now. His hand fell to the warm, stinging buttocks and stroked at them unconsciously.

“No. Won’t be quiet. You’re leaking in your pants. Poor John. All horny and nowhere to put it. Just touch it, John. Just touch it like I do,” said the coaxing baritone, low and persuasive.

“N-no, I mustn’t,” stammered the prudish man, even as he undid his belt and fly buttons.

“Come on. Everybody wanks, John.”

“Watch your mouth!”

He laid down another punishing spank and Sherlock squeaked, then chuckled darkly in his throat. He looked round over his shoulder with provocative slowness, doe-eyes peering up through his dark, curly fringe. John heard his own heartbeat thumping in his ears.

“Go on,” wheedled the prone detective, all slinky and suave. “Rub it on me. Rub it on my bruised bum. Don’t you want to feel how hot you’ve made it?”

John took his cock out, squeezing it so that a few tiny beads of semen leaked from it. Sherlock stared at it, mesmerised.

“I… You’re tempting me to do bad things, Sherlock…”

Sherlock looked at him with dark, greedy eyes.

“Give in, John. Touch it. Rub it. It feels _so_ good,” he urged, desperately.

John felt compelled to obey, and bit his lip as his hand began to move seemingly against his will.

“You little demon. Oh, God, can’t resist it. Going to hell.” He rubbed himself faster, groaning with conflicted desire.

“Yeah. More fun there anyway. Oh, fuck, John, you’ve got such a nice cock.”

“Have I?” asked the man, naively. He looked down at it. It was quite nice, he supposed. Thick, blunt, and much more than a decent handful. Not as smoothly curved and pale as his flatmate’s, but straighter and well-proportioned nonetheless. Sherlock licked his lips.  

“Yeah. Gorgeous. Rub it on my arse. Or between my legs. Enjoy yourself,” he invited, generously. John leant down and placed it between the wanton boy's glowing, gorgeously rounded cheeks.

“Ooh… Oooh, you’re so hot…” He gasped helplessly and thrust back and forth, so that his head span with forbidden lust.

“John. John,” moaned Sherlock, trying to get his attention. 

“What?” he whispered.

“Put it in me,” husked the vile tempter.

John’s prudish heart skipped a beat.

“In you?!”

“Yeah. Push it in. Up my bum.” He gave his hips a few little thrusts.

John was simply lost for words in his shock.

“Shove it up my arse,” confirmed Sherlock. “It’s lubed, and open. Feel. Sometimes I put my fingers up there when I’m doing it…”

He wiggled and John took the hint, moving back, so that Sherlock could push his bum up and spread his legs wide, defiled and shameless. 

“Oh, Christ…,” moaned John, running his fingertips up the cleft of the man’s arse, twiddling his warm, wet, deliciously pink hole just to check if what he said was true. His eyes rolled back in his head at the feel of the velvety flesh, open and lax, and willing…

“Masturbate yourself inside me, John. It’ll be so good. So tight, and even hotter, and it’ll make you sooo happy.”

“Mmf. Oh, God. Fuck. You sexy little slut… Can’t help myself.”

He really couldn’t. He pushed forward and sank his swollen tip into the slippery rosebud before him, stretching it almost white. Sherlock’s tight flesh gripped and opened up for him, closing round his throbbing hard-on. The sensation was mind-melting, and deep contractions of pleasure seemed to pulse through John’s gut and solar plexus.

Something about forbidden, something about _naughty_ …

Sherlock howled a little as his body was intimately invaded so deeply.

“Yesss! Fuck me, John!”

John did not need telling twice, and fucked his lover hard and fast, grinning crookedly above him as Sherlock giggled and gasped into his pillow.

John almost lost it, but held on, trying to make this last a bit more respectably. Well, un-respectably.

He whispered hotly, in his puritan voice. “I’m… Oh, you’re making me… I’m going to…”

“Come inside me, John. Please!” begged Sherlock, in his real voice.

“Yeah, coming, coming… Oh, FUCK. Lock!” John yelled as he came, the dizzying sensation thrumming from his toes upwards, launching him forwards. His hips snapped and braced as he pumped his moaning lover full of immorality and debauchery.

Sherlock grunted as he rode out his lover’s orgasm, rubbing off frantically against the bed until he came. His head span. His arse tingled and throbbed, and his cock felt like it was melting as he shot hard into his mattress.

Something about novelty, something about silliness, and trust…

John suddenly collapsed on top of him, panting a highly impressed ‘phew!’

Sherlock’s breath left him with an ‘ooof!' as he was squashed by the bulky, muscular body above him.

“Too heavy, John! Roll off!” he giggled, feeling his cold semen squishing onto his tummy.

John lay back, with his hand over his eyes, utterly spent, his stomach muscles aching with persistent chuckles.

“Fucking hell, that was ridiculous!” he exclaimed, delighted.

Sherlock giggled with glee, cuddling up under the crook of his arm. His head was bumped up and down on John’s bouncing ribcage.

“Felt really naughty, that,” mused John, still somewhat surprised.

“Told you it’d be fun!”

John heard the smug grin in his lover’s post-sex voice.

“You’re a devil, you," he chided, proudly.

“Yeah, you love it.”

“Christ almighty, I bloody do. Think I might have gotten you pregnant with that one.”

Sherlock snorted and slapped his partner’s arm. “John! That’s silly.”

John laughed hysterically.

“I’ll have to marry you, good little moraliser that I am. Can’t have a baby out of wedlock, can we?”

The damp, curly head nodded on his shoulder.

“We've already got one. But yes, please. You'll have to marry Greg and Mycie too though," said Sherlock, matter-of-factly.

John nodded, smiling dreamily. “Of course. I’ll marry the lot of you, and we’ll live in perfect sin happily ever after.”

“Well, perhaps we can just do the latter bit,” suggested Sherlock, amiably.

“Yeah. I reckon. Not really the socially conformist types, are we?”

Sherlock propped himself on his elbow and regarded him with sparkling, mischievous eyes. 

“Us, John?" he enquired, as he kissed his beloved flatmate's forehead. "Never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adore reactions from lovely folks like the boys adore a cuppa. It keeps me going and away from that ghastly spectacle we abbreviate to RL. x


	4. Mycroft and Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a few accidentally hurt feelings, the boys make it right. And Mycroft lets himself go, much to Sherlock's joy. Sentiment ahead (*gasp*).

There was a strange box in Mycroft's kitchen.

Sherlock did not trust strange boxes. He had opened too many in his career to be anything other than deeply suspicious of their contents. Rare and deadly spiders usually came out of them. Or poisonous gases. Or assorted, unmatching bits of missing people.

Nevertheless, he did what came naturally when confronted with a strange box: he opened it.

"What's that?!" exclaimed Sherlock, eyes wide. 

"It's an RAF Harrier Jump Jet," said Mycroft, blandly, without looking up from his paper.

Sherlock was nonplussed by this comment. He could see that it definitely wasn't.

"What do you think it is, cretinous boy? It's a cake," explained Mycroft, to his adorably literal brother. Sherlock accepted this answer and nodded. 

"It's a very big cake." 

It was. A very big, very expensive three-tiered cake. Vanilla sponge decorated with a profusion of buttercream icing, dark chocolate curls and fresh strawberries, with a crowning glory of fresh whipped cream, piped in delicate little swirls, and topped with yet more fruit. It glistened on the marble counter top. Sherlock gazed at it as though it were a rare and fascinating new fungus. 

"You're not going to eat that by yourself, are you?!"

Mycroft sighed wearily at this predictable, almost automatic response. 

"No, I am not. Though thank you for your confidence, brother mine."

"What have you got it for, then? Is it for me?!" Sherlock's eyes lit up excitedly. 

"No, it is not for you. Not everything is for you!” snapped the elder Holmes. “It is a birthday cake. For Anthea, as a matter of fact. The blasted bakery sent it to the billing address instead of to the office. Most aggravating. I am having it collected later and sent to her at home. With extra champagne as an apology." 

The champagne had been thrown in by the grovelling manager of Patisserie Antoine, who had been informed in no uncertain terms that they would receive no further orders from Mycroft Holmes unless compensation was made. Mycroft was ruthless in his retribution against offending caterers. 

"Fancy giving Anthea a cake!" Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "Anthea doesn't deserve cake. I deserve cake. How old is the birthday witch anyway?"

"I have no idea, and it is rude to ask. She is old enough to know better, that I do know. As are we all."

Sherlock took this equably, supposing his brother to be correct, though he doubted such clichés applied to himself. 

"I don't mind if you scoff it, Mycie," he said, slyly, seeing the delicious potential to ruin Anthea's birthday treat and make Mycroft happy at the same time.

Mycroft bristled. "I am not going to scoff it!"

Sherlock shrugged. "If you did, though, I wouldn't mind. I don't care. About all that rubbish," he waved a dismissive hand, attempting to indicate, Mycroft supposed, the entire complex edifice of the mind-body relationship.

"That's because you are a rake and a beanpole, and genetically destined never to have love handles," he grunted, regretfully rather than resentfully, Sherlock knew. 

"I just don't like food very much. Apart from toast. And biscuits. And other people’s birthday cake. It's OK that you do," he said, reassuringly.

"Don't go on about it," said Mycroft, irritably. 

Sherlock tilted his head and considered an earlier curious statement. "What  _are_ love handles precisely?"

"Put in the most positive light, they are fleshy hips that people grip onto when they're copulating. But in common parlance, they are flabby bits that spoil the fit of a nice pair of bespoke trousers and that nobody wants to be burdened with."

"Well, that's just stupid. Everyone has those. I like them. I like to grab you all over when we knock boots... Greg says my ears are love handles, but I think he just means he likes to use them to steer when he fucks my mouth."

"Your turn of phrase is ghastly. But, yes, Gregory is an unreconstructed pervert, God bless him."

Sherlock nodded, brightly. "So are you, Mycie."

"Thank you, dear boy. Speaking of unreconstructed perversion... Date Night - that grotesque American nomenclature - is upon us."

"Yep."

Mycroft blinked up at him. "What shall we do?" 

Sherlock turned a rather frustrated look upon his brother, and put his hands on his hips. "Not my turn to choose. Your turn. What do  _you_ want to do?"

"I don't mind. Whatever you like," replied Mycroft, neutrally. 

This answer was simply not good enough.

"That's not the point of Date Night! It's  _your_ turn. Aren't you bothered about it?" 

Sherlock's chest felt a little tight at this thought, but his brother merely breathed a heavy sigh. 

"I am, dearest, it's just... I haven't really had time to dwell upon the more pleasurable aspects of life recently. Very dark things are happening in the world. I am confronted with them on a daily basis. Rather a lot to think about." 

Mycroft winced a little apologetically, knowing he had been overly subdued of late. He had hoped his lovers wouldn't notice his plunge into the world-weary gloom that sometimes plagued him. But, then again, he mused reflectively - was that strictly true? He doubted he'd been subtle about his recent withdrawal. 

"I've noticed," said Sherlock, reading his inner thought process in that infuriating telepathic way of Holmes brothers. "John's noticed. And Greg's noticed. You're due an intervention. Been having too many nights alone at home, brother. You didn't even have dinner with us on Friday! Doing far too much exercise too. I've reviewed the stats on your infernal machines. And I saw you rearranging all the mugs in the cupboard by diameter..."

Mycroft's cheek twitched at the laser accuracy of his brother's observational powers, and he heard the silent amateur diagnosis loud and clear.

"I do not have OCD, I am just neat! OCD is..." 

Sherlock tutted with impatience, having heard it all before. 

"A life-affecting illness which is eminently treatable, yes, yes, yes! I know! John's already told me off for throwing the term around haphazardly. I take the point. You're just...somewhat obsessively,  _slightly_ compulsively too fastidious, in what I consider to be a mildly disordered way. Because it is on your mind, sometimes, isn't it? Making things tidy and stuff? It does affect how you feel, I know it does!"

Mycroft very nearly admitted it, but caught himself just in time. 

"I have control over my...quirks in this respect. I realise it's an irrational thought process heightened in times of stress, and I do my best to move past it. But ultimately, I am an orderly person, not a chaotic one, unlike some hygiene nightmares I could mention!"

He was rather disappointed in himself at such a transparent 'attack is the best form of defence' strategy. Sherlock very nearly fell for it.

"I am not... No. No," he shook his head with determination. "I know what you're doing. Trying to goad me into an argument so you can cancel Date Night, and sit here on your own re-alphabetising your film reels, feeling sorry for yourself. No chance. Just decide what we're doing and stop diverting! We've all had enough of this latest phase. Time to bring you back, brother mine." 

Mycroft shook his head, unable to think of a single thing to suggest. He conceded defeat. "Why don't you decide for me?"

Sherlock's jaw tightened in disapproval.

"Disappointing, brother. Shirking responsibility. I know you palmed your last request off onto Greg. Not getting away with it this time."

Mycroft bit his lip against the appalling innuendo that instantly and regrettably occurred to him. 'Don't say 'it was Gregory who palmed me off', Holmes. Don't say it...,' he admonished himself inwardly.

Sherlock smiled as he heard the unexpressed double entendre. 

"Mycie...," he said, quietly.

"Yes, dear?" 

"I don't think you have love handles. Well, only cute little ones. I like them a lot," he said, smiling as sweetly as he knew how. 

Mycroft frowned. "Don't be kind. I am a creature of flesh. Absurd to deny it. I have long since come to terms with my less-than svelte silhouette. We can't all have wasp-waists and razor-sharp hip bones like you, little brother. Or arm muscles like Gregory, or Johnny's flat stomach and sporty thighs."

Sherlock tutted and rolled his eyes. 

"All creatures are creatures of flesh, brother. Even me. Don't be absurd! You have skin and muscle and fat and sinew, like everyone else. What's wrong with that?"

"I am well aware," he said, tightly. 

Sherlock huffed in frustration. How to get through to one's stubborn elder sibling? "No, you're not aware. It's all arranged in very aesthetically pleasing form. You're not letting me explain that I..."

"I don't wish to discuss my tendency to fleshiness any further," declared Mycroft, holding up a hand to prevent embarrassment.

Sherlock simply could not bear to be halted by hand gestures. 

"Stop trying to get me to agree that you're chubby, because you're not. And even if you were I wouldn't care - didn't care when we were younger, don't care now! So shut up!"

"Very well."

This appalling calmness merely fanned the flames of Little Brother's ire. 

"No, it's not very well, Mycroft! It...makes me feel all...," Sherlock faltered, trying to identify the correct word through a welter of confusion. He settled on the most obvious one. "It really  _bores_  me.”

"I simply prefer not to indulge my untamed appetites, thank you," Mycroft retorted, frostily, wondering how they'd slipped into these choppy waters without warning. 

"That's a bloody lie for a start! What do you call fucking three men if not indulging your untamed appetites? And one of them's me!"

"One must have some vices, of course. I gave up cigarettes and gateaux, to offset whiskey and outré sex," commented Mycroft, attempting to quip them out of a row.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in revulsion. "Ridiculous."

"It is not ridiculous, it is self-control."

"Too much self-control! I'm not saying you need to be excessive and Epicurean all the time. I know you're not a naturally extreme person - not like me, thank God - but you're too restrictive by half lately! You love indulging us all. You spoil me rotten, as Watson's always telling me - but you won't indulge yourself, or let yourself be spoiled back. I don't like it!" hurled Sherlock, trying hard to make a very old, very sore point. 

Mycroft flinched.

"Well, I'm so sorry to be such a disappointment! You'd be the first to offer scathing commentary if I let myself go. But it's not good enough that I try to maintain some semblance of a desirable physical form either!"

Sherlock looked at him open-mouthed, with a pang of guilt as he recalled the all-too-easy jibes of their youth. Which obviously,  _obviously_  he didn't mean.

"I... You're twisting it! Your physical form is desirable in any shape or size. To me. To us. Why won't you understand?!" 

Sherlock's voice rose in pitch as he struggled to articulate the weird, squirmy feeling in his stomach. Date Night looked to be down the pan after all.

Mycroft was appalled at the unintentional turn in the conversation. "I'm... Leave me alone," he said, quietly, casting his eyes back to his paper without reading it. His brother launched forwards and snatched it away from him.

"No! Never will. You're allowed to let go sometimes, Mycroft! The world's a messy place, but you can't clean it up by denying yourself. Too neat, too cakeless! Get messy sometimes, for God's sake! I want you to!" said Sherlock, urgently, voice cracking rather unexpectedly. 

Mycroft closed his eyes and counted to ten, trying to control his shuddery breathing. 

"I want...some peace and quiet, and for this subject to be dropped. I think we ought to call off Date Night until we're both in better moods with each other. All right?" he said, attempting to seem rational and considered.

His brother glared at him furiously. 

"Nope. Not all right. All wrong, actually! But if you really want to cancel Date Night, fine!"

He stormed off, but caught himself half way. This flounce didn't feel quite right, somehow, and his brain worked quickly to ascertain what the problem was - that familiar tinge in his brother's limpid grey eyes. He turned back, biting his infuriatingly wobbly lip, his own eyes wide and bright. He spoke to the floor, unable to trust himself to look up quite yet.

"Mycroft. I just... I just want you to have everything,  _anything_ that you truly desire, brother mine," he said, seriously. "I don't want you to hold yourself in check. I want you however you are - even all...jaded and self-pitying and annoying." 

He flopped into a chair, and slumped his head into his folded arms on the kitchen table. "Don't want to cancel Date Night. S'not fair, Mycie," he said, in a muffled, sad little voice that made his brother's heart ache.

"Lock..." 

Mycroft moved to his brother's collapsed form, and petted his curly hair, sighing helplessly. Somehow he'd contrived to bugger this up, and it really wasn't on. 

"Hhmph," sulked Sherlock, as he let himself be made up to, and wondered desperately what to say to make Mycroft  _get it._ This one sticking point between them. The perennial issue on which his formidable, omniscient brother was blind, and unwittingly, appallingly, wrong.

He looked up, determined to give it one more try.

“Your body is my body, brother,” he said, quietly. “Your flesh is my flesh, and I want it all the time, whatever state it's in.”

Mycroft blinked and said nothing as this statement registered. An intervention, Sherlock had said. Yes. And who better to intervene than oneself? A firm decision ran across his considerable brain. A gesture was required, he realised. A mutually necessary one. He wrestled himself back to composure and advanced his cause, clearing his voice so it would come out unambiguously. 

"Date Night is not cancelled, dear heart. It is merely being brought forward. I'm instituting Date Day.”

“Date Day?” said Sherlock, hopefully.

“Yes. Now. And here's what I'm choosing."

Sherlock watched curiously as his brother strode over to the counter, and to the enormous cake. 

One side of Mycroft's mouth turned up into a self-conscious smile. 

"Would you like to indulge me, Lock?" he offered, hesitantly.

Sherlock grinned brightly, feeling the tension in his throat dissipating. "I... Yeah?"

Mycroft blushed rather fetchingly. "Yes. I... I wondered if you might share this with me."

"Anthea's cake?"

Mycroft nodded, hesitantly at first, and then with greater certainty. 

"You have to say what you want or it doesn't count," prompted Sherlock. "Rules are rules."

"Yes, of course. Very well. I want to...eat Anthea's cake. From your body. I want to play with my food, with my very edible little brother," he said, with a distinct smoulder.

"Destroy Anthea's cake?!" queried Sherlock, in a state of extreme delight.

Mycroft cast a dark and dirty look in return. His lips compressed before he forced out the words he knew would springboard them into a far more pleasant afternoon.

"Fuck Anthea's cake," he said, with a naughty smirk and a double-meaning. A thrill of illicit pleasure race up his spine.

Sherlock's eyebrows hit the ceiling. A palpable hit.  

"Mycroft Holmes!" he exclaimed, in glorious shock. 

Mycroft picked up the cake box, almost straining under the weight of the monstrous thing. He stalked towards his gobsmacked brother, balancing the huge creamy, fruity, baked confection in both hands.

"That's me, little brother,” he said, overcome with a mad kind of relief. “I'm a dreadful glutton, and I'm going to have my cake and eat it."

Sherlock went a little weak at the knees. "Ooh, Mycie..."

"Get your clothes off, and get upstairs. You want messy, baby boy. I'll show you messy.”

Mycroft grinned the grin of a man who was about to let himself - and a lot of other things - go.

Sherlock raced upstairs, stripping haphazardly as he went. Mycroft dodged the flying garments - shirt, trousers, pants - that were hurled in his path, making sure to keep the cake balanced and undropped. No need to create a mess before one had had the chance to enjoy it, after all.

"Bedroom?" called Sherlock, uncertainly. 

"Where else?"

"But...cakey sheets?" enquired Sherlock, wanting to be sure his big brother knew exactly what he was getting himself into. Mycroft merely tossed his head towards the door with stern command.

"Do as you're told." 

Sherlock gulped and his face flushed pleasantly as he threw himself into the room and onto the neatly made bed with its tight hospital corners and perfectly pressed covers.

He lay on his back, desperate to see what Mycroft was going to do next. Unpredictability. One of the best turn-ons in the entire world. 

Mycroft placed the cake box carefully on the dresser, then tore the box away from around it, failing to see a safe way of removing it otherwise. He hastily removed his clothes in much the same perfunctory manner, until he stood naked, fighting down a minor feeling of over-exposure, but determined not to give in to the insidious little voice in his brain that told him to hide himself away.

Sherlock looked at his brother's pale, smooth, utterly touchable body as though it  were his last meal - lightly flushed with pink at neck and chest; a light scattering of red-blond hair in all the right places; light musculature beneath soft, freckled skin; curved and inviting and real. The hungry look strengthened Mycroft's resolve to unleash his own appetites. Food and sex; so intimately linked. Why should either be censored?

He took the cake in his arms and lowered it to the very middle of the bed. Sherlock came up onto his knees to make way for it, crouching and gazing at it reverently. A three-tiered cake on a super-king-sized bed. When he let himself do it, Mycroft did not do decadence by halves.

Mycroft made sure the base of the cake was settled, then removed his hands and knelt opposite. He glared provocatively up at his brother through his pale lashes. 

"I meant what I said. Fuck Anthea's cake. Violate it for my pleasure, Lock. Shove yourself in it. Make it taste of you." 

Sherlock whimpered helplessly. 

“Make yourself hard for me,” commanded Mycroft. “Well, harder.” He stared mesmerised at his brother’s half-mast erection, which grew spontaneously at his words. Sherlock wrapped his elegant hand around it and squeezed the thickening shaft, moaning in the back of his throat as a tiny bead of liquid welled up to his slit. Mycroft mirrored his actions on the other side of the huge cake, bringing his prick to full stiffness, massaging himself with lazy, firm strokes. The Holmes brothers made eye contact as they performed for each other with unselfconscious, uninhibited desire.

Sherlock giggled at the absurd thing he was about to do, and was gratified to hear Mycroft chuckling too. Sex and laughter; so intimately linked.

“Do it, Lock.”

“Do it with me, Mycie.”

Sherlock shuffled forwards on his knees, holding his cock out and leaning in. Mycroft did the same.

Sherlock giggled again, and brought one arm up to rest his hand on his brother’s shoulder. Mycroft did the same, and they braced each other with the cake between them. They closed in upon their target.

“Gently. Keep it intact for now. I have plans for it,” said Mycroft, meaningfully.

Pressing forward together, they sank their cocks into the lowest tier - past soft, buttery layers of icing, and unctuous cream, to penetrate through to the light, moist sponge beneath. Chocolate curls sprinkled down over their groins and onto the bed. A couple of strawberries dislodged themselves from the upper layers, and dropped close to their knees. Mycroft watched with curiosity as a gob of cream rolled from the base of his prick, whilst buttercream smeared onto his balls and mingled into his pubic hair. His flushed face screwed up into a bizarre expression of revulsion and pleasure, amusement and discomfort.

“Now, that is a very odd sensation, brother mine,” Mycroft mused, objectively trying to make sense of it. He took a microsecond to imagine what this looked like from the outside and almost frowned at himself, before pleasure crept in and prevented him from caring.

Sherlock shivered and winced.

“Ooh, surprisingly cold…!”

A bit of friction soon warmed it up, and his eyes rolled back as he plunged in and pulled out again.

“Mm, creamy,” he panted.

Mycroft snorted. “Only going to get creamier…”

“You’re disgusting, Mycie!”

“I know, isn’t it marvellous?”

Sherlock nodded definitively and grinned. “Yes.”

Mycroft moaned a little as the gooey, crumbly cake engulfed him repeatedly. Sherlock bit his lip as he thrust in and out, trying not to nudge the top two tiers off. With bizarrely caring movements, the Holmes brothers proceeded to make love to a dessert, snorting and smirking at each other as they fell into rhythm.

Sherlock was panting at the torment of having to restrain himself when all he wanted to do was fling the damn thing to the other side of the room and leap upon his brother, all sweaty and sticky and covered in crumbs.

"Aren't you hungry, brother mine?” he said, huskily, as he thrust a little harder into the tunnel of cake he’d carved out for himself. “Isn't your mouth watering? Ooh. Smells so yummy…,” he taunted, hoping to galvanise him to further action.

Mycroft decided to rise to the bait. He placed a hand to the base of his cock, extracted himself wetly from the sponge, steadying the wobbling cake with his hands.

“My prick looks like an éclair,” he said, drily, only to make Sherlock laugh more.

He held his fingers to his own mouth and sucked them extravagantly, licking his lips and humming in satisfaction at the burst of sweetness on his tongue.

“Mm. Tasty.”

“Oooh, me taste. Lockie taste…,” whined Sherlock, pouting playfully as he turned his ravenous gaze onto his brother’s creamy cock.

Mycroft smirked. “Not yet, greedy boy. Pull out,” he ordered.

Sherlock winked cheekily and did so. He brought his own sticky hand up and offered it to Mycroft, who licked the long fingers clean, detecting the undertaste of salt and precome from his brother’s skin.

Mycroft groaned, gathered up some of the fruity topping in his hand, and smeared it in one long stripe down his brother’s bare chest, tweaking a nipple as he did so. Sherlock’s eyes momentarily closed in pleasure.

“Turn around,” said Mycroft, amusement lighting up his eyes. “Sit on it.”

“Really?!” Sherlock was transported with glee.

“Yes. I want to see it squashed all over you. I want it up inside you and everywhere. For today I am Dionysus, and I have an intense craving for sweetmeats, brother mine,” he said with a theatrical flourish, riotously enjoying himself.

“Dionysus is the god of wine not cake!” Sherlock could be pedantic as any Holmes, even while masturbating as he currently was.

Mycroft shrugged casually. “And of pleasure and ritual madness. Seems about right.”

“Yeah. Naughty messy Mycie…”

“Be quiet and sit on my cake, Lock. Nice and slowly, now,” he said with a fond, mucky chuckle.

With all the sensual provocation at his disposal – which was a lot – Sherlock turned himself round on all fours, presenting up his smooth, bare backside, as pale and creamy as the cake decoration. He wiggled it temptingly at his salivating brother.

“Peaches and cream, my favourite,” crooned Mycroft, sinfully. Sherlock peered over his shoulder, up through his long, dark lashes, smirked naughtily, and spread his legs. Mycroft bit his lip at the sight of baby brother’s rosy little hole winking open, just as ripe and juicy as the rest of him.

Sherlock lifted his hips and came up to balance, wobbling slightly, on his toes.

And then he sat down.

His luscious cheeks sank onto the creamy top tier and it oozed and squished across his arse, up his cleft and in between his legs. Cream coated his balls, smooshed up onto his aching cock, and lower abdomen; it smeared over the backs of his long thighs, and buttery icing streaked down his legs, running slightly where it had melted from his body heat. Red and purple berry fruits fell from his inner thighs and lodged in his crack. Dark chocolate curls began melting and merging in with the pale vanilla icing and glistening white cream.

The beautiful, painstakingly-made gateau collapsed under his weight as he sank further down upon it. The second tier bulged beneath him, then the third. Sherlock braced on his hands, and pushed himself down lower, harder, creating an erotic, slow-motion cake implosion. He rolled himself around with abandon, taking his brother’s instruction to fuck the cake entirely to heart.

He moaned deep in his chest as he sat, and squealed, and squirmed, and made little giggly ‘ew!’ noises, as cream and butter and sponge tickled him, reaching places they’d never reached before. The novelty thrilled him, and the knowledge that he was defiling a top-notch bit of posh bakery - as well as some very clean sheets - made him wiggle and hump the ruin of the once intact birthday cake until it was squashed almost completely flat. He thrust his bum back and forth, rolling his hips, making a production of it for his most appreciative audience.

Mycroft watched with his mouth open in a vast, greedy smile as his brother frotted and jiggled himself into a sticky mess. He briefly worried about how they’d clean up afterwards, but dismissed the thought, taking a leaf from his wise little brother’s book: fuck it.  

“Oh, brother mine…,” he breathed. “How does it feel?”

“Sploshy!” exclaimed Sherlock, looking back over his shoulder, all cheek and mischief.

Mycroft could no longer be a cake-sitting voyeur. It was time to feast.

He scrambled forwards and shoved his filthy little brother onto his stomach. A loud ‘splat’ met their ears as Sherlock’s washboard stomach met the sloppy cream on the bed. The younger Holmes spread his legs apart, and Mycroft, in a haze of want, slapped his hands upon the rounded, wobbling arse, sending more loose icing spattering over the duvet, and over his own body. Panting desperately, he spread his brother open, parting his soft bottom cheeks and gazing in wonder at the delicious filling sandwiched between them.

Sherlock whimpered and buried his head in his arms, lifting his hips up in open invitation.

"Gorge on me, brother,” he groaned. “Consume me. Let me feed you. Make you all dirty and sticky and happy."

Mycroft needed no further prompting. He grunted helplessly and plunged his face into his brother’s arse, licking a long, slow stripe up the cream-filled crack, and teasing over the cute, puckered hole. He dipped his head lower, and lapped at the soft, sensitive skin of Sherlock’s perineum, cleaning it of cake remnants, and swirling his tongue round it extravagantly. He mouthed at his brother’s soft, cool balls, partially obscured by confectionary. Sherlock yowled in pleasure.

The elder Holmes hummed contentedly in a deep, throaty baritone, and the vibration made Sherlock quiver and shake, and grasp the bedclothes with sticky hands. Mycroft nosed at him, squashing cake everywhere as he teased his brother to distraction. Unable to hold back any longer, he pulled the slick, smooth bottom cheeks further apart, and lunged forward to lick and nibble the delectable pink aperture set between them. He teased it open on his tongue and Lock cried out in a high-pitched tone as he was tickled and loosened by his brother’s talented mouth.

Mycroft pouted his lips to snog the pliant, twitching hole, slurping and sucking at it with fierce, unabated hunger. His own cock was painfully heavy between his legs as he rolled the profoundly erotic taste round his mouth. Sugar and pheromones, and the unmistakably sweet taste of Sherlock lingered on his tongue.

He was high on the sugar rush; and on the sex rush. Adrenaline and dopamine pumped round his system as he spoiled himself rotten on a combination of sponge cake and his brother’s flesh. Some primal connection sparked his senses to life, as tastes and smells, sights and sounds, and the tactility of food-on-skin, merged into one big cloud of ineffable joy. Stomach and groin and brain aligned as he ate, and ate, and ate.

Sherlock whined and pushed back, offering himself up for deeper, mouth-watering violation. He shuddered as the hot, wet tongue invaded him again, sending an uncontrollable judder through his thighs and up his spinal column. He peered back and giggled delightedly at his brother’s debauched appearance – his face was pink and smeared with icing; deep red hair curling with sweat and cream, with bits of fruit stuck to his chest.

Mycroft grinned a cakey grin and smacked his lips. "Mm. My favourite flavour in the whole world, brother: you. Organic. Luxurious." 

Sherlock whined in protest as Mycroft pulled away, and came up onto all fours, seeking more attention. He was kept in place by a firm hand on his lower back.

“Stay there. I’m not full yet. And neither are you.”

Smirking, Mycroft gathered up a handful of cake mess, brought his hand back, and smacked it directly into his brother’s bum, rubbing it firmly into his cheeks, sneaking the tip of one finger into his open hole.

Sherlock’s head jolted up at the sudden wet slap of cream and icing.

“Ooh, cake spank!” he exclaimed in surprise, looking round in delighted shock.

Mycroft did it again, and he moaned huskily.

“Mycie! Ooh…”

The playful spanking stopped, and Mycroft brought his hand round to Sherlock’s face, holding something between his fingers. A large and juicy strawberry, dipped in melting cream.

“Mm. After all that cake, I think I need something healthier. One of my five-a-day, obviously…”

Sherlock’s eyes rolled back as he realised where this was going.

“I’m going to eat this out of your pretty little hole, my darling. Do you want me to?”

“Yes! Yes, oh, pleeease... Your mouth, please-please!” begged Sherlock, humping into the air.

Mycroft smacked him again, and pushed Sherlock’s chest to the bed, forcing his back to flex and open his backside wider.

He rubbed the plump strawberry round Sherlock’s quivering hole, then teasingly pushed it in until just the husk of it poked out. He watched with the usual fascination as the little muscle made way for it, as it always did - well-practiced in taking whatever Mycroft chose to put there. The fruit lodged temptingly in place, and Sherlock whined at the wonderfully humiliating feeling of it nudging just inside him. He blushed as he pictured what it must look like, and his cock bounced up as he saw himself presented like a banqueting dish at a Roman orgy.

Sherlock wailed as Mycroft’s lips closed around the fruit and nibbled upon it, making it wiggle at the very entrance of his intimate passage, stimulating him tantalisingly.

Pink strawberry juice dipped down Mycroft’s chin and he moaned at the burst of tangy flavour – refreshing and sweet-sour, as it mingled with the familiar, spicy musk of his brother’s body.

Sherlock whimpered as his rapacious brother slurped at the delicious berry and pulled it out with his teeth, before chewing and swallowing. He did it again with another ripe fruit; and again, until Sherlock felt he might levitate from the bed.

"Oh, sweet boy...,” moaned Mycroft in a hoarse, desperate voice. “So delicious you are." 

With hasty movements, he span a very compliant Sherlock onto his back and loomed over him on all fours. The voracious gleam lighting his face took Sherlock’s breath away.

“Mycroft…,” panted the younger Holmes brother, struggling to articulate something important.

Mycroft spared him the effort, understanding all too well.

“I crave you,” he whispered, with intense ferocity. “I crave you, Lock. You are my ultimate indulgence, and you always will be.”

Sherlock nodded and bit his lip as his cock pulsed with every word.

“You’re mine,” he gabbled, desperate for contact now. “Mine. Need you…”

Sherlock pushed up onto his elbows and captured his brother’s mouth in a frantic kiss, tasting vanilla, and strawberry, and himself. They laughed and rolled together over the messy bed, slapping each other with sticky hands, licking each other’s sweet skin, and eating cake off each other in randomly interesting places – earlobes, collarbones, armpits, nipples, bellybuttons, and finally, the tips of their hard cocks.

“Yes, clean me up. Oh, lick me up…,” moaned Mycroft. He held one hand over his eyes; the other gripped Sherlock’s thick curly hair as he went down on him. His brain left the building and he let himself be coaxed to the very brink of orgasm by his brother's skillful tongue. Sherlock swirled and sucked at his cock, nibbling very gently round the crown, treating it as though it were a lovely lolly he'd been denied and could now savour to his heart's content. The sweet-salt flavours of patisserie and Mycroft struck Sherlock as particularly complementary - sophisticated, rich, and addictive. Mycroft groaned deep in his chest as he was passionately consumed. 

Not wanting to end too quickly, Mycroft tapped his brother's shoulder with some urgency and pulled him up with great reluctance. Sherlock released his treat with a wet pop and pretended to sulk. But his eyes lit up once more as Mycroft hastily manhandled him onto his back. Sherlock eagerly brought his legs up onto his brother’s shoulders, urging him in, panting with anticipation.

With nothing but melted buttercream and precome, Mycroft guided his leaking prick into his brother’s slackened opening, forcing the ring of muscle wider round his dark, plummy head. He shuddered as hot, moist flesh closed around him, and Sherlock keened as he was speared through in one slow push. By tacit mutual agreement, neither wanted to stop for extra lube or the niceties of gentle lovemaking. This was claiming. This was reassuring, rough possession, and both men felt it like a weight in the pit of their stomachs. This was about satiating each other and filling each other up with devotion.

Mycroft pressed in inch by inch, and Sherlock hissed at the initial invasion, then groaned loudly and continuously until he was filled.

“Fuck me. Oh, my brother, fuck me…,” he moaned, wantonly.

“Grab my love handles – that’s what they’re for,” chuckled Mycroft, pulling a delighted Sherlock's hand round to his hip.

The Holmes brothers gazed wonderingly into each other’s eyes, and, never breaking contact, fucked each other – deep and hard and so sweet. Sherlock folded himself almost in half to let his brother further inside his clutching channel, making Mycroft’s eyes roll back in his head. A slight, subtle shift in angle, and suddenly Sherlock’s nerve-centre was ignited into sparks by his brother’s prick as it nudged his prostate. He howled as the sensation ratcheted up a notch and made his toes curl. The intensity of it made his own hips thrust up as he urged a gasping Mycroft to pick up the pace, gripping his flesh wherever he could catch hold.

Mycroft took the not-so-subtle hint and began pistoning his hips harder and faster, ravaging his lover to fulfilment. He brought his hand round to grasp Sherlock’s needy cock, massaging at the ridge and stripping it with determined strokes to push him towards his finish. Sherlock’s head slammed back into a mess of cake as his orgasm started somewhere at the base of his coccyx. His arse clamped down, and his buttocks clenched and quivered as he came juddering to climax, spurting over his brother’s hand, and adding to the creamy mess all over his own stomach.

Mycroft groaned at the sight, and scooped up the viscous fluid, bringing it to his mouth with rakish pleasure, swirling the taste round his mouth like a blissful connoisseur. He felt almost insatiable, until the familiar onset of orgasm started to build in his gut, and throb through his groin with unstoppable insistence.

Sherlock massaged him with his internal muscles, his eyes dark with intent as he forced his brother to spend himself. Mycroft wailed as he shot hard, deep inside his brother’s body, while Sherlock clenched around his pulsing cock and milked him dry.

With a loud and replete sigh, Mycroft collapsed on top of his little brother, and the remnants of cake and cream squished between their bodies, causing them both to giggle and squirm.

Both men were sated at last.

Mycroft panted hard as he recovered himself.

“I know I’ve got a sweet tooth, but that was ridiculous.”

Sherlock placed a hand onto his stomach, grimacing slightly. “I think I feel a bit queasy, Mycie…”

“Oh, poor thing. I’ll fetch you some water. It was a bit sickly, wasn’t it?”

He left hastily, and when he returned with the glass of water, Sherlock was sitting up. He sipped until he felt less icky.

When he’d set the glass down, Sherlock turned a serious look upon his brother. He pulled him in, and took his sweaty, sticky face between his hands, thumbing away some stray streaks of icing from his warm, clammy cheek.

"Listen to me, Mycroft S. Holmes,” he said, pinning him with a stern glare. “You're not fat, not chubby, not even a bit jiggly. Well, a bit jiggly, when you bounce up and down on me. I know I tease you about cakes and stuff - but it's only because I'm your little brother and it's my job to be annoying, and it just comes out sometimes. John and Greg tell me off about it. I'll ask them to spank me very hard if they hear me doing it again, all right?”

Mycroft smiled rather bashfully. “Yes, dear. Whatever works for you, eh?”

Sherlock tutted impatiently. “I only joke because I  _don't_ think it's true! I thought you knew that.”

Mycroft sighed and picked some crumbs out of his brother’s fringe.

“I do really. I’m just, you know…,” he shrugged.

Sherlock nodded but persisted, needing to make it crystal clear.

“I know. But even if you were truly gargantuan, I'd still want you, Mycie. All of you turns me on. Because you're _you_. You're my brother. And my other half. And I love you.”

Mycroft’s eyes stung and he fought down the emotion which discombobulated him so entirely, but which he found so utterly necessary to his existence.

"Sherlock. Darling…,” he said, in a rather choked voice.

“Just be nicer," commanded Sherlock, firmly.

Mycroft frowned, anxiously. "How much nicer? What would you like?"

Sherlock snorted and shoved him in amused frustration.

"To yourself, idiot! Be nicer to yourself! I demand it. I want it."

Mycroft chuckled softly and petted his brother’s cross face, tapping his nose lightly.

"All right. Shush. What Lockie wants, Lockie gets. I sometimes fail to appreciate how it makes you feel, dearest,” he admitted.

Then he sealed their bargain with the words they took completely for granted, but only repeated to each other when the occasion called for it.

“You're my brother, and my other half, and I love you."

“Well, I should think so too.”

They leaned in to share a slow, lingering kiss, petting each other as though to reassure themselves of their mutual existence. When they broke away, both were sighing contentedly, feeling whole and full up. Mycroft smiled, suffused with affection.

"We are rather dreadful at looking after ourselves, us Holmes boys. But we are really quite brilliant at looking after each other, don't you think?"

Sherlock chuckled knowingly. “I do think, brother mine. What a bloody state we’d be in otherwise.”

A companionable silence fell, and they simply cuddled and soaked up their cakey afterglow, wincing occasionally at the cold creaminess sticking to their skin.

Eventually Sherlock stirred, unable to cope with the sensation of icing drying and cracking all over him. His nose wrinkled in disgust.

“Eurgh! This is just yucky now. All gloopy and coagulated. And it smells weird!”

“I agree,” groaned Mycroft. “Shower time. I'm congealing, and I’ve got crumbs in places that crumbs oughtn’t to be.”

Sherlock admired the devastation all around them. “Your bedsheets are ruined. What a mess!”

Mycroft nodded and waved a hand in blasé dismissal. “Ah, it will all come out in the wash, brother mine. Everything does eventually.”

“Have to buy another cake for Anthea,” said Sherlock, scathingly, as he skipped to the bathroom.

“Oh, sod it,” said Mycroft, flippantly, as he rolled from the bed. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. I’ll give her cash instead.”


	5. John and Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John presents Mycroft with the ultimate test. A night in the pub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're still finding these readable! 
> 
> p.s. Apologies for anyone waiting for next Recovered Memories chapter (all two of you). Soon, I swear it on my kettle. x

Mycroft Holmes was excited even before the key turned in the lock of his own front door. The house was immaculate, he’d had an extremely successful, trouble-free week, and he had been looking forward to this evening for some time. As soon as he heard the crunching of soft-soled shoes on the gravel drive he checked himself once in the mirror, and waited to receive his guest in the hallway.

John let himself in, stepping through the door with a dashing smile and a look of open pleasure on his face. Mycroft was tickled pink, and saw no reason to disguise his delight at being the cause of that eager expression.

“Ah, a handsome visitor, just when I was most in need of one,” said Mycroft, suavely.

“Oh, aye?” said John, with cheek. “Missed me, have you?”

“Always, dear. Come in, and come here.”

Mycroft held his arms out. John fell into them with some force, and ran his hands up under Mycroft's shirt, untucking it messily as he was wont to do.

Mycroft was not minded to care and let himself be lovingly rumpled. He captured his lover’s mouth in an enthusiastic kiss, humming with satisfaction and breathing in the cool, clean scent of a freshly scrubbed and primped Watson.

“Ooh, you ain’t half lovely, you,” said John, sniffing round Mycroft's collarbone and tugging an earlobe with his teeth.

Mycroft shivered pleasurably “Mm. You aren’t half lovely either, Johnny. You are all lovely.”

"You're in a good mood," said John, grinning and slapping his lover’s bum as he stepped away to admire him. Not one of his best deductions, but true nonetheless.

Mycroft nodded. “Of course I am. It’s Date Night with my favourite blond.”

He stroked his fingers through John’s immaculately set quiff. A bit of minor revenge for the untucked shirt. John let him do it with an amused scowl.

“More grey than blond these days, mate.”

Mycroft tutted a small scold. “Hardly. Well, a little. It’s very distinguished and I adore it.”

They made their way through to the living room, chatting amiably.

“Oh, shut it, flatterer. I’m in a cracking mood as well, actually. New locum started at the clinic, so no more overtime. Then Rosie grassed your brother up to Greg for cheating at Twister, and called him “Naughty Lock”. The look on his face. Funniest thing I’ve ever seen,” he chuckled as he relived the utter horror on Sherlock’s face when he realised his erstwhile ally had betrayed him.

Mycroft smirked. “An excellent child, John, I’ve always thought so.”

“And now a night with Mycroft Holmes all to myself. Top of the world, me.”

“Darling. So…what vile proposition did you have in mind now you’ve got Mycroft Holmes all to yourself?” wheedled the man in question, as they flopped down on the sofa together.

John shrugged and rubbed at his lover’s long thigh with casual affection. “Just spending some time with you.”

Mycroft was a little bit disappointed, but didn't want to show it.

“Dinner and conversation, then? Nothing will please me more.”

“Yeah. But I do have a tiny request as it happens…,” said John, teasingly.

Mycroft’s ears pricked up. “Ah ha. Your wish is my command. Whatever dirty, nasty little thing you desire, I shall willingly do…,” he crooned, nuzzling in to John’s neck.

“I want to take you up the pub.”

Mycroft sat bolt upright with a sudden bark of laughter. “Up the where?! Is that legal?”

John snorted and slapped his arm. “Oi, leave off. You must be in a bloody good mood, making off-colour jokes as if you’re Lestrade. Seriously, I wanna take you for a drink down the local.”

Mycroft’s face fell. “Oh, John! I can’t go to a pub!” he said, in a distinctly Sherlockian whine.

“Why not?”

Mycroft fidgeted and screwed his nose up in distaste.

“I’ll be entirely…conspicuous and I’m not marvellously comfortable in crowds of carousing…”

“Residents of North London?” finished John, amused at his adorably awkward lover.

 Mycroft glared back in disgruntlement. “Drinkers. Boisterous beer-swillers.”

“Which just shows what you know about pubs in this day and age, and about your local bloody area. We’re talking a hostelry in Hampstead not a working man’s club on Tyneside. Mixed crowd of middle-class Mums more likely. Decent grub and overpriced drinks, you’ll love it.”

Mycroft had a feeling John was going to be stubborn about this, good mood or no.

“John, you can go to the pub with Gregory, or Lock when he’s feeling adventurous and is allowed out. I am not your man,” he said, holding his hands up in apology.

John sighed. 

“But you _are_. Let me take you down the pub and show you off a bit.”

“Show me off?!” said Mycroft, incredulously, though flushing with unalloyed pleasure nonetheless.

John waggled his eyebrows with theatrical suggestiveness. “Yep. Might hold your hand across the table while we share a bowl of chips, who knows where the night may lead?”

“But - ”

“And it’ll be something we’ve done together that you haven’t done with either of them. Give me bragging rights.”

_Oh, is that it?_

Mycroft reflected upon this. John was angling for something special between them. New territory and a little male bonding. He knew John was hardly the jealous type, but Mycroft sensed his need to lay claim to something unique in their relationship. He could just see his beaming face as he boasted to Greg, “I got Myc pissed down the pub!”

As though reading his softening thoughts, John chimed in with another plea.

“Go on. Let me break your pub virginity.” He turned on his best puppy eyes and pouted. Mycroft had no resistance to pouting, despite all his protests to the contrary. One could not go through life with a baby brother like his and be resistant to pouting.  

John scented victory.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun. We’re going to have a nice little walk to The Spaniards on the edge of the Heath. Keats used to drink there.”

Mycroft perked up with interest. “Ah, yes?”

“Yep, amongst other local luminaries. Ye olde poshe pub, Grade II listed building. Dates back to the 16th century. All wooden beams and craft ale. Basically just full of novelists, socialists and literary tourists. Perfect for a quiet pint with my clever Mycie.”

“Hmm, you only call me that when you’re trying to get round me.”

“Works for Greg and Prince Charming, doesn’t it?”

“Works for you too, dear boy. All right. A-pubbing we shall go, God help me,” he sighed and eyed the heavens as though he’d just agreed to venture into the classical Underworld. “What does one wear to an historic pub that Keats used to drink in?”

John suppressed a smile at the question.

“Come as you are, that’s all right. But if you fancy slumming it with me, put on that nice blue cashmere jumper and your slightly looser trousers.”

“Is that sexy enough for Date Night?”

John winked and leaned in for a kiss.

“Are you having a laugh? You all dressed down in a pub. Bloody phwoar.”

***

After a bit of a lazy necking session on the sofa, they finally got it together enough to leave the house before things got too out of hand. Mycroft had tried his best to persuade John into heavier petting, hoping for a pub reprieve, but he was outmanoeuvred and sent to get changed with a stinging spank to his rear end.

“Bloody Watson,” he’d grumbled as he rubbed himself, sounding more like Sherlock than ever.

They strolled companionably together through the narrow side streets of leafy Hampstead, and out onto the main road towards the Heath. The nights were drawing in, and both men wore coats and scarves against the onset of autumnal air.

“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness…,” quoted Mycroft, as red and orange leaves blew around their ankles, lit by glowing Georgian streetlamps. “Keats,” he explained, at John’s curious look.

“Nice. Wonder if we can get a free pint off the barman if you recite the whole poem …,” he mused, as they approached a surprisingly large whitewashed building with a slate roof and shuttered windows. “Only one way to find out. In you go, mate.”

John ushered him towards the door of the pub with a chivalrous gesture. Mycroft caught himself taking a deep breath, and held back.

“No, you first John. I feel like a stranger in a Western, as though everyone will stop talking and stare when I enter the saloon.”

John tutted in fond despair.

“Oh, you soppy git. All right. Follow John-John. Wanna hold my hand in case of bandits?” he teased.

Mycroft did not dignify this with a riposte, merely gave a baleful glare and followed him in.

_This is fine. It’s just a pub. I can do this._

No-one looked up as they entered. It wasn’t overly busy, and the clientele were certainly an un-boisterous bunch; a mix of old regulars, the middling sort, young professionals and, Mycroft could tell, people who worked the arts. Laughter bubbled up in pockets around the warm, cosy room. Everyone was engaged in earnest conversation, or playing some of the old board games supplied by the proprietors. Mycroft wondered if he could interest John in a round of Operation. He needed the practice to be able to trounce baby brother at their next championship meeting.

John sauntered up to the bar with accustomed ease, and leaned on it with both hands. Mycroft schooled his features to appear unfazed. The look verged a little on stern, and John patted his arm reassuringly.

“What you drinking, love?” he asked, with a gallant wink.

“Erm…,” said Mycroft, intelligently. He scanned behind the counter for suitable options.

“OK, bit of a big question,” said John, kindly. “They have a wine list, if you fancy that. Some of it’ll be decent enough. Whisky, but nothing like as good as yours. G&T?”

“Pint of bitter, please, John.”

John’s eyebrows raised in delighted surprise.

“Oh, yeah?!”

Mycroft nodded, smirking.

“Yes, I’m not a complete nancyboy. They have it at the Diogenes. I just can’t bear lager. Revolting fizzy stuff.”

“Cool. Do you know the joke about lager?” said John, in a tone that meant ‘say no, so I can tell it to you’.

Mycroft frowned, humouring his upbeat partner.

“I highly doubt it, John.”

“Why is lager like having sex in a canoe?” he asked, grinning already in anticipation of the payoff.

Mycroft played along admirably. “For the life of me, I do not know.”

“It’s fucking close to water,” said John, with an expectant flourish.

Mycroft’s face remained a block of granite.

“Very amusing,” he drawled, with supreme sarcasm, knowing this was by far the most entertaining response for them both.

John gestured in disbelief, casting around for support from an invisible audience.

“Didn’t even crack a smile! Unbelievable! I thought you found me funny?!”

Mycroft tilted his head, considering this seriously. “I do. I just loathe the hackneyed set-up/punchline structure of jokes that simply creak with age.”

John rolled his eyes and huffed. “Please yourself. Go and grab a table, your Lordship. Couple of pints, you’ll find me hilarious. Laugh you into bed, I will,” he promised, jabbing him with a finger.

Mycroft gave him a flirtatious look and turned.

“Fucking close to water…,” he chuckled, under his breath.

John watched him go, shaking his head affectionately. He ordered from the woman behind the bar, who clocked Mycroft with a rather appraising eye. John smiled knowingly to himself. For all his reassurances that no-one would notice him, people bloody did notice whenever Mycroft Holmes entered a room, whether they were aware of who he was or not. Holmes magnetism could not be so easily dressed down.

John looked over at his lover as their pints were poured. He was sitting at a small table in a little nook, looking absolutely like a man who had never been in a pub before - frowning deeply, subconsciously tapping his fingers on the tabletop, bouncing his leg up and down on the ball of one foot, and distracting himself by silently deducing the other patrons to shreds.

John’s heart clenched at the sweetness of him. A powerful feeling akin to the word ‘mine’ thrummed through him.

_Mycie’s down the pub with me!_

Mycroft looked up in relief as John approached with their drinks, and he sipped, grateful to have something authentic to do. The bitter was decent and it settled his fish-out-of-water nerves a little.

“Mind if I order some dinner?” said John, picking up the menu from the table.

“Of course not. I suppose I could join you. What would be safe, do you think?”

John grinned. “I think anything would be safe, Myc. It’s a pub menu, not Russian roulette. Not every fourth dish is laced with cyanide. Though we had a case about that once…”

Mycroft recalled it and nodded nonchalantly as he perused the dining options with a look of misgiving. “Nasty business.”

“Posh steak pie for me, no question. Mash, gravy, veg. Smashing.”

“They have confit duck! I thought it would be all chip-related. I’ll try that. My treat,” said Mycroft, reaching for his wallet. John stopped him.

“Nope, my treat. Yours is the next round. But you have to go up and order yourself. Mine’s a Camden Pale.”

Mycroft grimaced. “Oh, John…!”

“Bloody hell, man of the world like you, all shy in the world’s most bourgeois public house? Be Johnny’s brave little soldier, and if anyone gives you any nonsense, give ‘em the Iceman treatment,” said John, teasingly.

Mycroft rolled his eyes in a long-suffering sort of way. “Yes, dear.”

After their hearty meal - which was pronounced 'rather good', much to John's relief - Mycroft took a deep breath and advanced to get in the second round, feeling far more at ease and in tune with his surroundings.

“I think the barmaid winked at me!” he said apprehensively, when he returned with the drinks.

“Oh, you noticed, did you? Bloody hell, that pint must have gone down well. Bloke at the dart board was eyeing your arse up an’ all. Can’t take you anywhere.”

A few hours and a few pints later, both men were as warm and fuzzy as any two men in any pub in Britain, though perhaps not all of them held hands across the table and gazed into each other’s eyes in quite the same way.

“Not too pissed, are you?” asked John, slurring only slightly.

Mycroft shook his head emphatically.

“No. No. Definitely not. Just warm.”

“You’re gorgeous,” said John, earnestly, “and that’s not the beer talking. Fancy coming home with me? And by home, I mean, your home?”

“Our home. And yes, please. I’ve been thinking about you all week. Take me home from the pub with you, John.”

“Naughty boy,” leered John, making Mycroft’s stomach do a little gymnastic flip.

“Oh, yes. I am,” he husked, quirking a rakish brow.

They left, giggling in a rather undignified manner, Mycroft suspected. Once outside, John turned left up the empty street.

“Wrong way, Captain Watson!” called Mycroft, laughing. The silly sod had apparently had more of a skinful than he realised.

John shushed urgently and walked back towards his puzzled lover.

“Not the wrong way, Myc. Let’s go on the Heath,” he whispered, conspiratorially.

Mycroft frowned. “Bit late for a walk.”

John chuckled. “Yeah, I know it is. Don’t fancy a walk. Let’s go…on the Heath,” he said, with some loaded meaning.

That meaning fell upon Mycroft like an Acme anvil.

“No, John!” he said, pulling back as his coat sleeve was tugged at.

“C’mon! Exciting,” said John, grinning manically and pulling his protesting lover along.

“John, really. No. I’m perfectly serious. Stop it at once,” he scolded, using the voice he used to tell Lockie off in the middle of some appalling bit of behaviour. Unfortunately, just like Lockie, John was woefully immune, at least when he had a few pints inside him.

John caught him in a clinch and rubbed his groin insistently against Mycroft’s leg, pressing his face in to his neck and mouthing at his jaw. Mycroft felt the rock hard erection underneath two layers of wool coats, and couldn’t help but respond in kind. He groaned quietly and twisted his hips so their groins met. His own cock grew hard at the direct stimulation, and from the sheer thrill of John in the midst of a particularly randy episode.

_I do this to him. I turn him on._

“Mycie…” John moaned quietly in his ear as he rutted desperately against him. He sensed his lover’s near-capitulation and pressed on. “Pleeease? Date Night regs, Myc. I want to fuck you on the Heath. Want to fuck you _so_ much, right now, now…”

Mycroft Holmes was a resolute man, but the number of times he crumbled like a fruit pudding served with custard these days was just embarrassing. All three of his lovers had a direct line to his willpower and seemed to be able to switch it off on a whim. However, upon this subject, John Watson’s masculine wiles would have to be thwarted. He caught himself just in time before he said something regrettable like, ‘Oh, God, you can fuck me anywhere, anytime…,’ and followed him to some seedy little clump of bushes.

“John,” he said, hoarsely, pushing his lover away against every rightful instinct. “Watson!”

John looked up, biting his lip and casting an outrageously come-hither look. Mycroft held him off at arm’s length, summoning every ounce of his resistance.

“Let me, Myc. Wanna fuck you out here,” said John, husky and hot.

Mycroft took a deep, shuddery breath. “So you said, and I’m extremely pleased that you want to. But I’m afraid not. It would only take one undercover policeman or some gutter rat journalist... It is actually illegal, you know.”

John scoffed flippantly.

“Don’t be silly, it’ll be fine. Loads of people do it. It’s not the 1950s, no-one would even care! Not like they’d be catching you with Lock…”

“Even so! I mean it. I’m amenable to many things, but it’s damp, it’s cold - it’s rather tacky, really - and most importantly, I can’t put us in jeopardy like that. There are those who would delight in hounding me from my job if I were caught cottaging on Hampstead bloody Heath! It would make me a target, even if it didn’t cause a public scandal, and it would inevitably rebound on you, and Gregory, and my brother. I won’t do it, John. Come home, please.”

John kicked the ground and frowned. “Catastrophising, Myc. Risk is part of the fun… Just a quickie?”

Mycroft shook his head with definite refusal. He was past being turned on now and was tipping over into irritation. John shrugged his lover’s restraining hands off and stood back, looking like Sherlock when he’d been told a very firm, unwelcome ‘no’.

“You let Greg fuck you in the lavs at the Albert Hall!” he exclaimed, accusingly. Mycroft heard the underlying petulance tinged with jealousy, and his heart pounded uncomfortably.

“Keep your voice down, please!” he hissed. “That was in an empty room, behind a locked door, where either of us could have hopped up onto the seat if anyone had come in, and where we could hear people approaching. I can’t have sex with you in a public park, John. I am putting my foot down. I would say the same to Gregory, and to Lock, just in case you were about to attempt that one.”

John flushed guiltily.

“Just a suckjob behind a tree or something,” he muttered, fluttering his eyelashes.

Mycroft almost stamped his foot, wondering why the message wasn’t getting through. And then it struck him that he hadn’t quite used the correct words.

“John Watson, listen to me,” he said, seriously. “Code Red.”

John’s eyebrows rose, his mouth went to say something, and then his face fell back to its usual affable expression.

“Oh,” he breathed, as the penny dropped.

“Must I say it again?!” hissed Mycroft, a little frantically.

John leaned in and hugged him, rubbing his back in reassurance.

“No! No, course not, sweetheart. Sorry. Thought you were pushing for more persuasion. Code Red is Code Red. Not a problem.”

John smiled up at him a bit apologetically, and Mycroft felt the knot of frustration in his chest melt away.

“Disappointed in me being a boring old stick?” he asked, tentatively. John shoved him gently.

“Don’t be a tosser. It’s not a deal breaker – was just chancing my arm, really. Bit of spontaneous open air rumpo. Nice idea, but not one for reality. I get it. Have I upset you?” he asked, concerned.

“No, dear. It’s not the outdoor element, you know, it’s the onlookers and undercover agents element...”

John held up his hand. “No further explanation needed. Come on, gorgeous, let’s get you home in the warm. I don’t get off on the onlookers bit either, by the way. Not up for sharing you. Apart from with those two idiots we knock around with.”

Mycroft was relieved to hear it.

“Oh, those two? Mm, I’d forgotten all about them, John.”

They chuckled amiably and strolled home, hand in hand.

Once safely back inside, a cunning little gleam appeared in John’s eye. Mycroft missed it as he turned to remove his coat.

“Keep that on,” chuckled John, putting his hand on his lover’s shoulder.

Mycroft looked at his partner enquiringly, seeing mischief etched in every feature.

“Oh, no, now what?” he asked, intrigued and suspicious all at once.

John jerked his head and led them down the hallway, still in their outdoor clothing. They walked the length of the house until they reached the conservatory. John stared out of the double glass doors and out into the large, landscaped garden beyond. The neighbouring houses – of which there were only a few at some distance – were dark.  He turned back to Mycroft, hands on hips, head cocked to the side with a smouldering glint in his green-gold eyes.

Mycroft snorted in disbelief, even as laughter burst forth.

“You are absolutely tenacious, aren’t you? Worst of the lot of us. Prize-winningly obstinate,” he said, impressed.

“Isn’t that why you love me?” John chuckled and pulled his lover in by the lapels, repeating the moves he’d made in the street moments ago. 

Mycroft slipped his hands beneath John’s coat and kissed him with passion. “One of the many reasons, my dearest randy doctor.”

He pulled away and sighed helplessly.

“Go on, say it," he said, tolerantly.

John grinned. “I want to shag you in the back garden. How’s that?” 

Mycroft held up his hands in defeat.

“I give in. It’s freezing cold, so I’ll be surprised if you can keep it up for long. But I’m going to turn the security lights off, and get cushions for my knees.” He turned, then double-backed suddenly, pointing a finger as he thrashed out the terms of his bargain. “And you’re running me a bath later - no, not just running me a bath, _giving_ me a bath like the Lord of the bloody Manor that I am - and a full massage for simply hours, _and_ bringing me breakfast in bed tomorrow!”

John nodded his agreement gladly.

“There’s a game lad. Go and get your cushions,” he grinned and unlocked the patio doors. “Got lube in me coat already, just in case…”

Mycroft looked mildly scandalised.

Cushions found, lights and motion alarms deactivated, they went out into the garden, snorting and suppressing tiddly giggles like trespassing teenagers.

“Over there,” whispered John, pointing to a pleasant, flat patch of ground with apple trees and bushes of roses, and other assorted, unidentifiable shrubs.

"The minute anyone's lights go on, we’re going back inside. And you can keep your usual racket down, as well,” warned Mycroft in a low voice.

“I’m not the one who screams like a Banshee when he’s being done up the…”

Mycroft slapped his arm in reproof, then dropped his cushions onto a patch of damp grass.

_More expensive soft-furnishings ruined by my sex life. Ah, well._

John grabbed him before he could kneel, and pulled him into an ardent snog. Suddenly, the cold night air didn’t seem to matter, and they fell into each other, hands roaming over and under their clothing, panting and gasping quietly in the not-so-great outdoors.

“God, you smell good,” whispered John into his lover’s ear, his breath ghosting in the air. He hastily unbuckled Mycroft’s belt and undid his trousers. Mycroft mirrored his actions, pulling John’s jeans down over his slim hips. They shivered a little, and rummaged around in each other’s underwear, their thickening cocks hot in each other’s hands. Each man bit down a groan and gasped sharply into the other’s mouth as they kissed and caressed and rubbed themselves into a state of mutual readiness.

“Do you come here often?” whispered Mycroft, hitting upon a game to please his lover.

John pulled away and held his partner’s pale face between his hands. Even in the faint light of the moon he could see it was flushed and a little damp with perspiration, and that his eyes were sparkling with mirth and adoration.

John’s chest clenched tightly.

“Nah,” he whispered back, shaking his head. “Not pretending you’re a stranger. Just want you.” 

“Johnny, you romantic fool,” said Mycroft, as his heart skipped a beat. “Get on and fuck me,” he demanded, with a crooked grin.

John gave him a winning smile, and, with a feral little grunt, span the taller man round and pushed him down onto his knees. Immediately, Mycroft encountered a problem. Cushions were all well and good, but his bare hands were bracing on chilly soil. He hastily reached into his coat and produced a pair of leather gloves, donning them while John pushed his own pants down behind him. He heard his breath hitch slightly as his nether regions were exposed to the elements.

Mycroft positioned himself onto all fours, and shuddered at the rush of brisk air as his coat was pulled up and over his back. The tails fell over each side of his arse, and he gasped even more as John’s cold hands pulled his slacks and underwear down to mid-thigh.

John hummed in appreciation at the sight of the mighty British Government, fully dressed and on his knees, with his bare bottom exposed under the night sky. His lover’s pale skin shone in the moonlight.

“Full moon tonight,” he giggled, unable to resist.

Mycroft glared over his shoulder at his lover, who was masturbating indulgently with a faraway look on his face.

“Hurry up, my bum’s a block of ice!” he hissed, indignantly, as goosebumps prickled all over his skin.

“Suits your image,” John said, a bit louder. Mycroft shushed him and pushed his arse further out to encourage some progress.

John snorted as he extracted the lube from his coat and started slicking himself up, rubbing harder to create more warmth. Then he went to kneel, and realised there were no more cushions left.

_Shit. You wanted authenticity, mate._

He winced as he knelt on the cold, damp lawn, and worked quickly to prepare a rather impatient Mycroft. He ran one slick finger up and down between his lover’s high, firm buttocks. Mycroft spread his knees further apart and lifted his hips to present himself more easily for attention.

John circled his forefinger round the twitching little hole he yearned to fill, encouraging it to relax and open for him. Mycroft grunted as the questing finger made an entrance, pressing firmly but slowly inside him. As the second one joined it, he bit down on the inside of his cheek to prevent himself keening like he usually would. He could hear John’s hoarse, panting breath, and the low rumble of need in his chest as he fingered him open with one hand and wanked himself stiff with the other.

John quickly removed his fingers and guided his straining prick to his lover’s opening, nudging his hips forward bit by bit. The temperature meant that time was of the essence. Too lengthy a preparation was obviously going to lead to an embarrassing anti-climax.

Mycroft pushed back to take him in, and John groaned aloud as his cock was engulfed in smooth, slippery heat, though with a bit more resistance than usual.

“Ooh, you’re so tight!” he moaned as he pushed in to the hilt, gripping Mycroft’s hips for leverage.

Mycroft bent further forward, dropped his head lower and arched his back to accommodate John’s thickness inside him, gritting his teeth a little at the intrusion. He adjusted his angle until it felt familiar and perfect, and groaned in deep satisfaction. Then he remembered where they were and bit down on his forearm to prevent from crying out and rousing the Neighbourhood Watch.

Wasting no time, John started thrusting with a shallow and fast humping motion, as though this really were a quick bonk on the Heath. Mycroft thrust back, exhaling sharply with each bump and grind. He felt bestial and raw, and gloriously uncivilised.

_I’ve been in a pub, now I’m being rogered in the rose bushes… Standards are slipping, Holmes. Or are they improving? Hard to tell…_

He lost his train of thought as John picked up the pace, throwing him further forwards. His head span at the tantalising sensation of being rutted upon and used. All his senses crackled and fizzed - the sound of John repressing his passionate moans; the uncanny beauty of Hampstead by moonlight; the smells of earth, damp grass, and a distant wood fire.

“Fuck me. Fuck me harder!” he demanded in a harsh whisper.

Both men forgot about trivialities like propriety and eavesdroppers.

John groaned louder and let himself drift into the dizzying headspace he often found himself in when buried deep inside the magnificent, charismatic first-born Holmes. Mycroft exerted such power in ordinary life, and yet here he was - soft, and yielding, and crying out for John to fuck him. Some animal instinct took hold, and before he realised what he was doing, John brought the flat of his hand down upon one of his lover’s smooth, porcelain bottom cheeks with a resounding smack.

“Oof!” said a startled Mycroft, swiftly followed by the familiar telltale whine of pleasure.

John did it again, in the exact same spot. And over again in sync with every forward thrust, until he could practically see his own handprint glowing in the dark.

“Yeah, that’s right, take it, Myc, bloody take it...,” growled John.

Mycroft’s arse throbbed deliciously in the cool air, and he dropped his head down in complete submission. He whimpered and nodded frantically.

“Oh, yes, John, make me take it…,” he begged, louder still, eyes screwed shut in bliss as he was spanked and roundly buggered in his own back garden.

John was now grunting and snarling, and saying “yeah” and “fuck” with every stroke like some tawdry porn actor. Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to be appalled. He merely yowled in an impossibly high register as John hit his prostate with one firm slide, and stayed lodged inside to assault it repeatedly.

If there hadn’t already been stars in the sky, Mycroft would have seen them anyway.

John was on the verge, and Mycroft leaned on one hand, masturbating himself with frantic jerks of the wrist, whining his need into the open air.

Suddenly, a stream of yellow light fell across the dark garden. John froze in horror, jolting Mycroft forward somewhat painfully. They both looked up to see a sash window open on the upper storey of the large house opposite.

A man leaned out.

“Hoy!” he shouted into the night, in the poshest accent John had heard since he left Sandhurst.

Mycroft hid his head in his hands, awaiting horrendous retribution.

“Bluhdy foxes!” cried the angry resident, and slammed the window closed again.

As the light went off in the house, laughter began in the garden. Their _al fresco_ fuck was declared officially over.

“Come on, mate, let’s take this inside. My hard-on’s gone right down,” snickered John, slipping free.

Mycroft struggled to his feet, wincing at his creaking knees as he pulled his pants up.

“That was your fault, Watson. You’re the one who started smacking my backside!”

“As if you mind! You’re the one who sounded like a cat being strangled.”

“A fox, apparently.”

“Yeah, you are. Now get inside so I can finish you off.”

The tucked themselves away and walked swiftly to the house, desperate for central heating and soft surfaces. They shed their outerwear, and rubbed each other briskly to bring the bloodflow back to their limbs. With a wicked smirk, John suddenly launched himself at Mycroft, who gave a squeak and let himself be chased up the stairs to the bedroom, feeling exactly like a fox on the run from a persistent hound.

John stripped himself naked as he went, and was gratified to see Mycroft hastily divest himself of his kit and dive eagerly onto the bed.

“Come on, Watson, don't leave a task half done,” said the flushed, panting Holmes, alight with merriment and anticipation, seemingly elated after their safe little bit of risk-taking. He beckoned to John provocatively and turned himself onto his stomach, dipping his spine for effect.

“Ooh, handprint!” exclaimed John, with no remorse whatsoever, as he observed the red outline seared onto the top-right of Mycroft’s pert bottom. Mycroft craned round to catch a glimpse of it and made a little moue of approval.

“Mmm. Very nice. Care to even me up? If I’m going to be sore tomorrow, I’d prefer to be balanced,” he said, arching an insouciant eyebrow.

John smouldered at him, lube in hand, and pounced. He pinned his lover to the bed and straddled his long legs, massaging and kneading at the soft globes of flesh.

“Seeing as you asked so nicely, you foxy redhead. Give you something to blahdy screech about, shall I?” he said, mimicking the posh neighbour's voice, much to Mycroft's amusement.

John bent down and sucked a love bite onto the soft fleshy curve of Mycroft’s bum - a little red-purple bruise which he pressed and rubbed at while his lover moaned incoherently. Then he proceeded to lay down a series of scorching spanks on the left buttock, rendering its owner a wailing, writhing mess. The moans elevated into yells, and Mycroft kicked his legs as he let himself be overcome by John’s sturdy hand.

The noise alone was enough to make John’s cock rise against his abdomen, and he just couldn’t wait any longer. He pulled away and slicked himself back up again, breathing heavily in sync with Mycroft’s own ecstatic huffing and puffing.

“Right, now, where was I before we were so rudely interrupted… Mm. Was it…here?" 

Mycroft yelped as his stinging cheeks were parted, and John resumed his diligent preparation, taking a little more time with it now they were actually comfortable. His fingers sank into the moist little hole more easily, and Mycroft bit down onto the bedclothes, groaning with gratitude.  

Just when Mycroft was thrusting haphazardly into the mattress, John tapped him and urged him to turn over. Mycroft rolled face-up, with a glazed, hazy look in his eyes, and a jaw slack with desire. He gazed up in silent query.

John winked at him and clicked his tongue.

“Hello, you. Want to see your face. And cos I’ve done all the hard bloody work tonight, here’s what's happening…”

John lay himself down, stroking his cock and holding it upwards in his fist.

“Ride me, Myc. Go on. Take what you want from me,” he urged, with fierce intensity.

Mycroft flushed and clambered on top of him, chanting his name in a low, lust-filled voice. He took a moment to admire the broad expanse of John's bare, toned chest, his muscular stomach, and rugby-solid shoulders - then leaned down to capture his mouth in a searing, slow kiss. They licked at each other and took turns catching each other’s lips between their teeth, while Mycroft seductively lowered his backside. John guided him down towards his waiting prick, and gasped as the tip sank into the haven of his lover's body. Slowly, inch-by-inch, Mycroft sank and filled himself up. John’s eyes rolled back when he was completely seated, and he kept one hand at the base of his cock to steady it as Mycroft began to rock back and forth, and then bounce gently up and down on it.

When they found a rhythm that satisfied them both, John brought his other hand up to his lover’s prick, which dripped onto his stomach. He made a circle with his fingers and let Mycroft thrust up into it as he rode.

“Oh, _John_!” wailed Mycroft, spurring himself on faster, caught between pleasure fore and aft. His breath whooshed out of his body with every downwards slide, and John grunted and raised his hips to get deeper at the same time. Their flesh slapped together obscenely; wet and percussive.

Mycroft was sweaty and pink and utterly gone, head thrown back in _extremis_ as he practically cantered atop his sturdy partner.

John was close, but held off his orgasm with a firm grip to the base of his prick, waiting for Mycroft to indicate his own climax. No harm in helping him along, though… One sure-fire way of getting a Holmes's rocks off: language.

“Getting close, Myc. So close. Gonna spurt right up you, watch my come dripping out of you over my cock…”

Mycroft’s eyes stayed closed, his mouth open as he tuned in to John’s dirty talk. “Yeah…?” he moaned, uncharacteristically monosyllabic.

“Look at you fucking yourself on me,” hissed John, in his most guttural accent. “Just using me for my cock, just stretching yourself wide on it, aren’t you? Pleasuring yourself on me like a filthy, slutty boy, so fuckin' desperate to take it up the arse…”

Mycroft whimpered and bounced harder.

“Love it up the arse, don’t you? Tell me. Tell Johnny…”

Mycroft nodded frantically, blushing red but not caring a jot as he debased himself so beautifully, and so truthfully.

“Oh, Christ, John, yes! I love it up the arse. Love taking it up the arse from you. Love you watching me take it up the arse from Gregory, or my Sher…”

John gripped his lover’s prick more firmly and rubbed at the leaking head faster, making Mycroft’s stomach contract and his strokes falter. John angled himself up and back to strike the little bundle of nerves that made men lose their mind.

“Oooh, yeah…,” crooned John, silkily. “There it is, in’t it? Just that spot there. So _good_ …" He pummelled at it ruthlessly now, firmly in the driving seat. 

Mycroft’s voice cracked under the strain. “So good, John! Fuck!”

Captain Watson went for the jugular.

“Naughty Mycie. Bad, naughty boy, getting fucked so hard up the bum by a rough ol' squaddie like me..."

The words pierced into Mycroft’s brain like arrows, whizzed down his spine, and struck the epicentre of his erotic system. He clamped down on John’s hardness, plunging down as deeply as he could, exhausting himself until his whole body suddenly tensed and went completely rigid. The sinews in his neck stood out as his face twisted into a rictus of pleasure, and he howled loudly as he came, pulsing hot streaks of semen over John’s chest.

The clench of powerful internal muscles, and the sight of Mycroft Holmes shuddering to pieces on top of him, kick-started John’s own irresistible spasms. He bit his lip and locked out his hips as he spent himself inside his lover, gasping and exclaiming with every throb.

Mycroft collapsed on top of him, saying “oh, oh” on a repetitive loop, keeping John inside him until he softened and slipped out.

With a vast sigh, he rolled off and grasped John possessively, as though he were his favourite teddy bear. He kissed him all over like a man possessed, tickling and goading him into a lazy play fight. John absolutely adored a post-coitally silly Mycroft, and clutched the older man to him, petting the auburn forelock which always sprang into a riot of curls after a bout of vigorous mattress trampolining.

Mycroft settled his head onto his lover’s chest, wiggling at the ambivalent sensation of spunk dribbling out of his well-used arse – inexplicably revolting and delightful.

“Thanks for humouring me tonight, mate,” said John, with a broad, happy smile. “The pub grub, the garden knee-basher, riding me like the last horse out of town…”

Mycroft snorted a laugh and reached up to pat his lover’s cheek affectionately.

“That’s love for you, Johnny. It makes fools of us all.”

“You’re nobody’s fool, Myc. But I love you anyway. Beautiful man.” He planted an extravagant, smacking kiss to the top of his damp head.

“Handsome bugger,” retorted Mycroft. “I’ll have scrambled eggs on toast, by the way.”

“You what?” asked John, confused by this apparent non-sequitur.

“My quid pro quo. You fucked me in the flora tonight, I get brekkers in bed in the morning.”

John huffed a laugh, which became a chuckle, and then a full giggling fit.

“What now?" groused Mycroft, good-naturedly. "Why do all my darling partners find me so relentlessly hysterical?” 

“Just a great title for a rude Keats poem, that. ‘Fuck me in the flora.’”

“Really, John, that is sacrilege,” complained Mycroft, appalled. Then after a pause, he mused, “What rhymes with flora…? ‘Oh, fuck me in the flora, my outdoor sex explorer, and I’ll be thy true adorer, though my arse grow ever sorer…’”

“Mycroft!” exclaimed John, transported with delight at this utter ridiculousness.

“No, you’re right, it doesn’t really work,” said Mycroft, riotously entertaining himself.

“Maybe a film title’s better," snorted John. "Carry On Up The Herbaceous Border. Or… Privets on Parade!”

John’s ribcage was now entirely out of his control.

Mycroft grunted. “I warn you now, if you say anything about green fingers, or use the word hoe, or make mention of any phallic vegetable whatsoever, I will leave the room, the house, and London.”

“Aw, poor sensitive boy. I’ll behave. I’m not Greg.”

“Anyway,” said Mycroft, impatiently, “the best title is a dirty Agatha Christie novel. Buggery in the Shrubbery.”

Mycroft failed to suppress his own deeply immature laughter. John pulled his partner's head up by the hair in order to glare at him with severe disapproval.

“This is the sort of thing you find funny, is it? It’s pathetic. Do you hear me, Holmes? Utterly pathetic," he admonished, sternly.

Mycroft smirked through a pained grimace, knowing that it definitely was and that he couldn’t be more pleased with himself. By the shining look of pride on his lover's face, he knew that John couldn't either, and he congratulated himself on having successfully participated in three new male bonding rituals tonight: a date down the pub, a shag in a badly-lit woodland area, and the exchanging of self-consciously ghastly witticisms. 


	6. Sherlock and Greg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which power dynamics are explored. Sherlock has a brilliant idea for Date Night with Greg. He's going to have a houseboy for the evening. It goes about as well as you expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think by now all of the pairings have had a story. Round we go again, when inspiration strikes! x

Despite whose turn it was to choose their activity, Date Night between Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade often went one of two ways. Either Sherlock was in the mood to challenge and push the boundaries of their relationship, with more than a measure of infuriating brattery thrown in; or he was kittenish and compliant, throwing himself at his oldest lover’s feet and going all “ooh yes, sir, anything you say, sir”. Either approach ended in a mind-blowing fuck, but the route towards it could be convoluted or straightforward.

Greg took it as a badge of honour that his extraordinary lover often felt the need to test him. Their combined personalities made for volatility and highly-charged chemistry, and Sherlock loved running him riot to see what explosions he could induce. Greg, being a rather alpha type, satisfied Sherlock’s need for a bit of brutish dominance. Greg was someone Lock could fight back, safe in the knowledge that he would always, always lose, and Greg would always come out on top. 

As soon as Greg walked into his own living room after a very tedious shift, he knew he was in for the convoluted patience-testing kind of Date Night, and he couldn’t say he wasn’t looking forward to it. He’d had a very boring day. He was in the mood for some mayhem.

Luckily for him, the place was a tip. A Sherlockian whirlwind had wrought havoc upon his relatively tidy home. All his stuff seemed to have been freed from whatever container it was once contained within – books had been flung from the shelves and lay scattered across the coffee table and floor; his DVD cupboard was open and all his Hammer films and best porn was spread out around the telly. Greg’s jaw tightened when he saw the discs had been removed from their cases and were jumbled together to form a silver puddle. Men’s Health magazines and old newspapers covered the sofa. His Scrabble set - never, ever, under any circumstances to be played with Sherlock, John or Mycroft (respectively too immature, over-competitive, and hyperliterate) – had been emptied onto the dining table.

He could see that the open plan kitchen had suffered much the same fate. Almost every piece of crockery he owned, including his precious football mugs and the branded pint glass collection he’d nicked from pubs as a student (before his reformation as a sensible upholder of the law), adorned the worksurface and breakfast bar. All the tins in the cupboards were arranged into an enormous pyramid. His wet laundry had been removed from the washing machine and shoved onto the floor instead of the basket.

Apparently, Greg wasn’t the only one who’d had a boring day.

“Oi! What the bloody hell have you done to the place?! Lock? Sherlock? Where are you, Trouble?” he yelled towards the stairs in the hallway.

He grinned at the frantic stomping he heard coming through the ceiling, as Sherlock raced from the bedroom above and clattered down the stairs, all flying limbs and curls.

He burst into the room with a flourish, eyes flashing with excitement, and broad, impudent grin on his face.

At Greg’s amused expression, he recovered his dignity, pulling himself to a standstill and schooling his features into haughty nonchalance.

“Ah. You’re home,” he said, pretending not to be excited.

“Well, if you can call it home anymore. Why? Why have you destroyed my house? I advise you to make the explanation really, really good,” said Greg, evenly, though with an underlying menace that made Sherlock bite his lip in a brief moment of doubt.

“Date Night,” he said, eyes sparkling with mischievous promise.

A look of comprehension fell across Greg’s face.

“Oh, aye. Want me to spank you for it, do you? Great. Give us a cuddle first though,” said Greg, moving across to him with open arms and a broad grin.

“I do not want you to…do that, thank you,” bristled Sherlock, frowning. He tilted his head in consideration. “But I will have a cuddle.”

“Aw, that’s kind of you, love.”

Greg chuckled and grabbed him with both arms. Sherlock squeaked and put up a minor show of fighting, before sighing and going limp, and embracing him like a drowning man.

Greg grinned over his lover’s shoulder. Little bugger was pleased to see him. It was still a hell of an ego boost - a novelty that had never worn off.

He pulled Sherlock into a lazy kiss, and they sighed happily into each other’s mouths, licking and nibbling.

Greg sighed indulgently.

“All right, I’ll bite. What’s the jig? Why have you trashed the place?”

“I have trashed the place, my beloved Inspector, so that you will tidy it up.”

“Will I bollocks!” spluttered Greg, with classic South London inflection.

“I don’t know what that means, Lestrade, though it sounds defiant. Defiance will not be necessary tonight, because it is my turn to want something, and what I want it nothing less than your abject servitude,” Sherlock stated, matter-of-factly.

“Oh, pull the other one, love!” complained Greg, looking highly perturbed.

Sherlock smiled his best winsome smile.

“You’re going to be my houseboy, and do my bidding, and do everything I tell you, and I can punish you and everything!” he said, excitedly.

He’d had the idea brewing for a while, and he couldn’t wait to enact it.

“Oh, reckon?” said Greg, with a sardonic tone Sherlock didn’t altogether care for.

He nodded in confirmation, frowning at Greg’s less-than-amenable attitude.

“Yep! My Date Night. My decision. Here it is. Suck it up: I want you to be my servant and do everything I tell you. _Everything_ ,” he said, emphatically, holding up a finger.

The look on his fine-featured face was nothing short of Caligula on one of his particularly bossy days.

“Oh, Judas Iscariot on a trampoline…,” moaned Greg, shaking his head in misgiving.

Sherlock tutted censoriously.

“Stop being silly. It’s going to be brilliant. You’re going to serve me, and serve me well, until the stroke of midnight. No, until dawn! You’re going to be my eager-to-please little subby, and I am going to lord it over you like you lord it over me all the blasted time. Get out of that, if you dare, Lestrade! And I remind you that Date Night rules are sacrosanct, and if you renege on the deal or welsh on me, you will go down in history as one of life’s biggest rotters. John and Mycroft will never look at you in the same way again. You will be a broken man, a busted flush. Your reputation for integrity shattered, your dignity ground into the dust, your…”

“YES, all right!” shouted Greg, desperate to stop this horrendous tirade. “Farkin’ell! I get the message. You don’t half go on! I’ll be your houseboy, happy now? Anything for a quiet life!”

Sherlock was resplendent in triumph.

“You aren’t going to get a quiet life, Lestrade. Not tonight. You are going to get chores, and the whims of a very whimsical Master, and you are going to be run ragged for my pleasure. Ha. Unless of course, you’re a massive hypocrite, who can dish it out but can’t take it?”

Greg scowled unhappily.

“And what are the rules?”

Sherlock seemed taken aback but hastily covered for it. He hadn’t really given rules much thought. Wasn’t being mindlessly obeyed enough of a rule?

“The rules… You only speak when you’re spoken to. That’s one. If you want my attention, you present yourself at my feet. And…” Sherlock’s brow wrinkled as he considered. But he couldn’t really think of anything else.

Out of his depth, thought Greg, suppressing a fond smile.

“And you get punished if you disobey, or cheek me off, or do a crappy job of the housework,” said Sherlock, holding up an emphatic finger.

“So you already said, love.”

“Time to see what you’re made of, Lestrade,” chuckled Sherlock, with unbearable condescension.  

“Fine. But for what it’s worth, I think you’re making a mistake, kiddo,” said Greg, sucking air through his teeth, as though offering casual, well-meaning advice. 

Sherlock frowned at this unexpected and rather impertinent remark.

“Stop trying to wriggle out of it,” he said, glowering.

Greg held his hands up. “I’ll honour the Date Night treaty. But don’t say I didn’t warn you, babe.”

“Warn me? Pfft,” scoffed Sherlock with profound contempt. “Nothing to warn me about. It’s one of the best ideas I’ve ever had in a lifetime of superb ideas. You’re always bossing me around. Time for a taste of your own medicine.”

Greg shrugged pleasantly.

“I’m sure you know best, clever lad.”

“I do, because I’m cleverest.”

“Then you must be right.”

Sherlock glared, a bit unaccountably annoyed that Greg hadn’t objected more strongly, or whinged, or begged him to reconsider.

“Go and clean out the horrible filter in the washing machine!” he ordered, imperiously.

“All right.” Greg smiled with sweet compliance.

Sherlock remembered something very important. “You have to call me ‘sir’ too.”

“Do I, now?”

A brief flicker of irritation ran across Greg’s deep brown eyes, and his jaw clenched momentarily.

Sherlock smirked with satisfaction.

“Yes!”

“As you wish, _Sir_.” Greg ground out the honourific, making it sound measly and sarcastic.

Sherlock frowned.

“Tut-tut. You can drop the attitude, my lad, or I’ll have to move to the disciplinary part of the evening faster than either of us would like,” he warned.

Greg’s eyebrows raised, aghast. “My lad?! I’ve got twelve years on you, you cheeky little…”

“Gregory! Don’t answer me back or you’ll be sorry. I’m putting you on a warning. You only get three tonight. And you don’t want to know what happens when you get to the third one.”

Greg breathed and summoned every ounce of his patience. Sherlock gone mad with power was a recipe for absolute disaster. He would play along gladly if it made the boy happy, but, frankly, he was waiting for all hell to break loose. In the meantime, he would have to play him at his own game.

“Yes, Sir,” he said, evenly, with no hint of irony. “I’m sorry, Sir. What can I do for you, Sir?”

Sherlock frowned again, seeming disconcerted by something.

“Tidy this lot up,” he ordered, forcing certainty into his tone.

“Whatever you say, Sir,” smiled Greg, with maddening politeness.

“Erm. Good.”

Greg went to start tidying up, wondering what on earth had put this ridiculous ruse into his lover’s head, when Sherlock turned back to him.

“Wait. I almost forgot…” He smiled in that supremely fake, shit-eating way of his, before dashing from the room. Greg stood there, wishing John was around to see this nonsense.

When Sherlock returned, he was holding something up.

“Oh, bugger off!” exclaimed Greg, appalled.

Sherlock wagged his finger.

“Silence, Boy. Take your clothes off.”

Greg glared at the item in Sherlock’s hand. An item he instantly recognised because he’d bloody bought it: a butt plug connected to a hip harness that would have looked like a skimpy g-string were it not made of thick, black leather. The front had a single strap, ending in a cock ring at the front, to hold his old fella in place while he did menial housework, apparently. The back strap would ensure the plug went up his arse and stayed there.

Sherlock smirked with unbearable superiority.

“Not thinking of chickening out, are you, Boy?” he asked, smarmily.

Greg snorted with derision.

“As if. I can handle a bloody plug up the arse. I know I’m not as mad for bottoming as some people I could mention, but I do like it up the bum as well, you know. Nothing you can do can shock me, you tawdry swine. Been there, done that, got the sodding leather harness.”

Sherlock shook his head and sighed. “Oh, dear me, such impudence. That’s your second warning, I’m afraid. You might want to think about doing as you’re told unquestioningly and behaving yourself, Gregory. Get yourself more appropriately attired for me. And less of the lip.”

Greg bit his tongue against the automatic, “Sod off, you great consulting prat,” that so desperately wanted to emerge.

He merely ducked his head with something approaching passable remorse and stripped naked. He attached the straps of the harness over his hips and winced has he slid the cold metal ring over the base of his cock. He realised he was going to be forced to ask for help getting into the rest of the bloody thing.

_Patience, Lestrade. Let the little sod wear himself out. Then pounce. Hard._

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in obnoxious amusement at his lover’s plight.

“Something the matter, my lad? Oh… How silly of me. You can’t just shove that big thing up your bum unaided, can you? Not without lube, anyway. I can help you with that. Bend over the back of the sofa. No, wait. Ask me nicely first.”

Greg hesitated as he summoned his dignity.

“Or would you rather I just shove it in you with no lube?” said Sherlock, in a deep, dark voice. Greg shivered at the tone. He just might be serious about that. You never knew with that voice.

“Please, Sir,” he asked, meekly, lowering his eyes in convincing submission. “Could you please help me put that thing up my arse? Carefully, with lube and everything?” he made sure to specify, because he just knew Pretend Dom Sherlock was a bloody pedant.

Sherlock thought about it.

“Hmm. I shall help, yes. With lube, though I can’t promise how careful I’ll be. As you pleaded so nicely. Go and bend over for me, Boy,” he commanded.

Greg gritted his teeth and shuffled to the sofa, holding the back part of the harness with the plug awkwardly in his hand as he went. He was having a few second thoughts. He wouldn’t put it past his unpredictable lover to be a bit cruel for the sake of it, if he was really getting into character. He wasn’t sure what the limits were at the moment. But then, he reminded himself, he could safeword at any time and Lock would respect it. Yeah, said a small voice in his head. Lock would. _But what if I’m not playing with Lock tonight…?_

He bent himself over, feeling a little bit nervous despite his former resolve to play the game. He decided to enter into the spirit of the thing properly. Give the lad a chance to stretch his boundaries. See how it goes. Besides, he’d get more out of it personally if he gave up a bit of control. He had no qualms about subbing per se. Well, he did. Just wasn’t his natural place in the world. He liked anal sex well enough on the receiving end, from any one of his lovers. But sexual position wasn’t the same as power dynamic. He wasn’t convinced this was a balance that worked for either of them. In fact, he knew it wasn’t, and he could already sense it ending in tears.

Setting his doubts aside for now, he awaited his new Master’s attention.

Sherlock approached him with a tube of slick he’d had in his pocket, ever prepared. He toyed with Greg’s backside, running his finger up and down his cleft, pulling his balls and feeling round the cock ring to check it was snug enough. Which it definitely was as far as Greg was concerned.

“Deep breath, Boy,” husked Sherlock, as he began inserting his finger into Greg’s tight pucker. Greg hissed a little and his breath hitched at the intrusion. He forced himself to relax and bear down. It wasn’t like they hadn’t done this before. Greg had no problem with being penetrated by any of his lovers. But this clinical, perfunctory approach was not usual, and Lock never usually wanted to take the lead.

Sherlock hummed appreciatively as his lover spread his legs and opened up for him. A little shiver of instant gratification ran through him and adrenaline began pumping round his bloodstream. Oh, this was going to be _so_ good.

He worked his finger into Greg with a distinct lack of finesse, then scissored a second inside him. He hadn’t been particularly generous with the lube, but it was just enough to make it painless, though it wasn’t precisely comfortable.

Greg forced his breathing to level out as he felt the tip of the plug at his entrance – a middle-sized option, he thanked his lucky stars. Not some absurd monstrosity that looked like it belonged in a joke shop. It breached him firmly and he couldn’t help but hold up a hand in appeal, hoping the signal would be understood.

Sherlock saw the hand go up and stopped, uncertainly. He felt a little twist of something in his chest and wondered at it.

“Problem? Er, my lad?” he asked, remembering his role.

“No,” said Greg, panting a bit, his voice a bit strained. “Just… Could you please go a bit slower, Sir? Please.”

Sherlock grunted and frowned at the not-good sensation fluttering in his stomach.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, trying to disguise his concern.

“No, Sir. Just… Maybe more lube, if I’m allowed it? And a bit slower, please?”

Sherlock balked at the uncertain inflection and the stammery voice. It sounded insecure, nervous. Almost worried. Not at all like Greg.

“Yes. Seeing as you asked so politely,” he growled, feeling a bit annoyed, though he wasn’t quite sure who he was annoyed with.

He squirted more lube onto the plug and slid it in much more slowly. Greg breathed more easily and pushed back, not expecting Sherlock to find the correct angle first time, seeing as they so rarely did this kind of thing. Not this way round, at least.

The plug slid home and both men breathed a sigh of relief. Greg sagged over the back of the sofa and Sherlock finished bucking up the harness.

He placed a cool hand gently on his lover’s lower back and patted him.

“All right? Boy?” he asked, solicitously.

Greg nodded. “Yep. Er, yes, Sir. Fine, thank you.”

Sherlock recovered his composure. He slapped his lover’s exposed backside. Hard.

Greg yelped, and Sherlock did it again, enjoying himself a bit more now.

“Get up,” he ordered.

Greg stood and turned, keeping his head down and his eyes averted, hands by his sides. He tried to look as humble as possible. He was going to be a good Boy, he’d decided. He was going to be bloody impeccable.

_Let’s see how Master Holmes likes that._

Sherlock eyed him speculatively, and found no fault. His usually wolfish lover was subdued, meek, and radiating patience as he awaited orders. His deep brown eyes were uncharacteristically downcast, and his spiked hair set off the rather boyish demeanour he was projecting to perfection. He looked bloody gorgeous in his strappy accessory – his large cock protruded beautifully in front, gripped tightly by the ring. His lovely furry tummy above it, strong abs and defined pectorals, and then those muscular biceps… Golden skin and sinewy strength.

Sherlock felt himself hardening in his trousers and grunted as he pulled himself back into the driving seat.

“Right,” he said, decisively. “Get started on your work. I’ll be back to inspect it in a moment, and to offer encouragement and such.”

And with that, the Master turned on his heel and buggered off.

Greg looked around, even more baffled, but decided to just get on and do as he was told. He could do that. He remembered doing it all the time as a young copper. Maybe this was going to be a good exercise for him. He was always telling people what to do. Perhaps he did have too much power and needed taking down a peg or two. But, then again, that sounded more like Mycroft. Not himself. Ah, lovely Mycie, he mused dreamily. Such a sweet, subby little darling behind the bedroom door. As was his pest of a baby brother normally, in his own unique way.

He sighed and began clearing up his own living room, wincing slightly at the probing plug in his arse which nudged just shy of his prostate. It was enough to tease him to semi-hardness. Doubtless he’d be fully erect if not for the fiendish cock ring.

He lost himself in tidying, restacking all his books, even bothering to alphabetise them despite the fact they weren’t alphabetised before. He was damned if Sherlock was going to be able to pick fault. He wouldn’t give the little git the satisfaction. He knelt gingerly to rebox all his DVDs, and generally made the living room liveable again.

As he was turning his attention to the kitchen, Sherlock re-emerged, looking even more smug than he had before. And well he might. Because no-one who looked that good wearing only a tight pair of black leather trousers and a smile should be anything other than the smuggest man in the Western hemisphere.

Greg gawped at the new trousers, and his cock bounced against its restraint.

His lover’s long legs were encased in smooth, buttery leather. His crotch was obscenely outlined. His prick, obviously hard, lay heavily to the left side of his upper thigh. Greg noted with an increasingly raised heartbeat, that the crotch had a subtle easy-access flap built into it. When Sherlock turned to show off his arse - so tightly squeezed into the leather it was probably illegal – he saw there was a zip up the back seam. He licked his lips unconsciously, taking in his lover’s hips jutting sharply above the tight waistband; his wasp-waist and naturally concave stomach were emphasised deliciously by the low-rise cut. The trousers had obviously been made to measure, and Greg could guess who had had them so expertly and expensively tailored.

Sherlock smirked, knowing he was absolutely the most gorgeous thing Greg had ever lusted after.

“Eyes to yourself, Boy,” he growled.

Greg gaped stupidly.

“Uh?”

Sherlock thankfully took pity on him.

“Poor Boy. Stunned stupid by my new kecks? They are rather snug, aren’t they? My brother had them made for me. Took my measurements himself actually. That was fun. And John’s already seen them…,” he said, tauntingly.

Greg flashed a look of fierce jealousy, unable to stop himself. Bloody Watson got there first!

“Oh, yeah?” he said, forcing his voice to work again.

Sherlock nodded and grinned evilly. “Oh, yes. John’s seen them. John’s _sniffed_ them. John’s come all over them and licked his own jizz off them, Gregory…”

Greg whined helplessly and looked utterly stricken.

“But,” said Sherlock, magnanimously, “if you’re a good houseboy, I might let you do the same. I’ll be in the living room while you finish up here. Don’t take too long. I don’t like to be bored. I get annoyed when I’m bored, and when I get annoyed, I get creative.”

He turned with a flourish and left Greg dumbly opening and closing his mouth. Greg hurriedly jumped to his task and started clearing the kitchen.

By the time he had finished, Sherlock was reclining on the sofa with a book, bare feet up on the coffee table.

Greg crossed the room and did something that came entirely unnaturally to him. He knelt at Sherlock’s feet and ducked his head, awaiting his attention.

Sherlock let him stay there for a little while before he deigned to notice.

Greg fidgeted impatiently, knees creaking, and was resolutely ignored. He sighed to himself and stayed still, determined not to give in. Unlike some people, he actually had patience.

Eventually, when Sherlock got bored of the silence, he looked up. Greg’s eyes were focused on the floor, and his hands were behind his back. It was…odd.

“Right. Let’s see how you’ve done. And whether reward or punishment are in order,” decreed Sherlock.

Greg refrained from rolling his eyes.

Sherlock roamed around checking everything that he’d disrupted earlier had been set to rights again. It had been, and he was obviously highly irritated at finding nothing to punish his houseboy for. Not a book out of place, not a speck of dust anywhere. Greg had done an infuriatingly thorough job. Didn’t he know the whole point was to be sloppy to provoke chastisement?

He moved to the kitchen and found the same. His diligent servant had even cleaned the disgustingly clogged washing machine filter. He’d gotten all the tea stains off the sink, and all the tins in the cupboard seem to have been alphabetised as well. It was quite upsetting.

“Hmm,” said Sherlock, a bit more grumpily than he intended. “Good job. Reward, then. You can worship my feet. Only my feet, mind you, until I tell you to stop.”

Greg refrained from shrugging. He was pretty sure neither of them had a foot fetish, but if that’s what Lock wanted to try, he was game.

Sherlock flopped down on the couch and held his legs out, beckoning his Boy to come and kneel again. Greg went willingly, his eyes modestly lowered.

“Lick my feet,” ordered Sherlock. That definitely sounded like a nicely submissive thing to make someone do. He wouldn’t mind doing it… But no, now was not the time to dwell on unhelpful thoughts like that. He was the boss here.

Greg nodded.

“Yes, Sir.”

Greg set about worshipping his lover’s long, slim feet. He nibbled each toe in turn, licking over his in-step and round to the bony ankle, completing a lazy circuit with his tongue. He almost chuckled when he heard Sherlock suppressing a giggle. He was quite ticklish, but Greg knew there’d be hell to pay if he broke role and started tickling him for real. He made do with kissing the high arches, rubbing his cheek around them, and nuzzling at the smooth soles. It was an odd sensation, making love to a pair of feet. It didn’t exactly turn him on, but any contact with any part of Lock’s body was to be desired and enjoyed.

Sherlock lay back against the sofa like a Roman Emperor and gazed down at the top of his servant’s silvery head. His eyes rolled back in his head at the sensation of Greg’s tongue on erogenous zones he didn’t know he had. It sent a lovely shivering feeling up his legs to his groin.

But something was nagging at his brain. Some minor discomfort. This was nice, being worshipped. Wasn’t it? His houseboy was taking care of him. But because he’d been ordered to. Maybe not because he really wanted to. The thought made Sherlock’s mouth turn down and set a fluttery feeling about his heart.

While the physical sensation made Sherlock go tingly all over, it didn’t make him feel as powerful as he expected. It made him want to throw himself back and say ‘take me’. Everything Greg did made him feel like that.

In ordinary circumstances, Greg would have acted on instinct and would probably have moved from the feet, up his legs, and further. He would have thrown Lock onto his face and be eating his arse by now. He’d have reduced him to a puddle of need. Instead, he was waiting for orders, waiting for Sherlock to think of something for him to do.

That was the problem, Sherlock realised. Greg behaving submissively felt like dominance, because he couldn't feel anything other than completely in thrall and submissive to him. Even when having his feet worshipped, with his lover crouched below him. Lock knew who the boss was, and it wasn’t him.

“Stop now,” he said, quietly.

Greg looked up with a question in his eyes. Sherlock knew it was the ‘are you all right?’ look, and he suddenly felt very stupid.

“Go and get me a drink,” he ordered, covering his awkwardness.

Greg gave him a narrow look, then dropped his gaze once more.

“What would you like, Sir?” he asked.

Sherlock almost whined.

Every order seemed to require another order, or a follow-up of some kind. He had to stay ahead of his requests, to make them specific enough to be followed, and he had to keep thinking of more. It was knackering. Sherlock already had to think of things all the time. He didn’t want to do it with sex. But he couldn’t just come out and say that now. Because Greg would think he was a total idiot.

“I want… Guess,” he demanded, dodging the issue. “Choose something you think will please me, and I’ll tell you if it does or not.”

Greg seemed surprised but nodded sweetly.

Sherlock felt his mood descending.

When Greg returned, he presented him with a glass of cold milk.

Sherlock looked at it angrily.

“What’s that?!”

“Milk, Sir,” said Greg, passively.

Sherlock pouted. “Milk! I don’t want milk.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, Sir,” said Greg, naively, “I thought you liked it.”

“I do, but not… Not now. Only before bed! Milk’s not the right drink at all. Milk’s all wrong!”

“Sorry, Sir. What would you prefer?” asked Greg, levelly.

“I… I don’t know! I don’t want a drink now,” huffed Sherlock, seeming a bit discomposed and baffled.

“Juice? Or tea? Or a beer? Sir?”

“No, stop questioning me. I don’t want anything!”

Greg shrugged a little less than politely. “As you wish, Sir. I just thought…”

“Well, don’t,” snapped Sherlock. “You were supposed to get me something I wanted.”

Greg tilted his head as he considered this.

“With respect, Sir, I can’t do that if you won’t tell me what it is. Though it sounds like the answer is ‘nothing’. I can’t deduce your preferences. I’m not as clever as you.”

He left the statement hanging in the air between them and Sherlock heard the way it was intended.

“Are you being impertinent?” he asked, incredulously, feeling an uncomfortable irritation rising in his chest.

Greg considered the question. “I don’t think so, Sir,” he said, casually. “That’s for you to decide. Isn’t it?”

Sherlock glared at him fiercely.

“That’s it. You’re getting punished. I don’t care if your housework is perfect and you’re good at sucking toes. You’re cheeky, and insolent, and you’re mocking me.”

“I’m really not, Sir. But as you wish, of course.”

“Yes, as I wish! It’s all as I wish, that’s the point!”

“Yes, Sir,” said Greg blandly.

“Bend over the sofa,” snapped Sherlock, hoping that the antsy feeling in his stomach would stop when he doled out a bit of a lesson to this infuriatingly calm and collected so-called submissive.

Greg did as he was told without giving any indication that he minded either way.

Sherlock left him there, and went to retrieve something from upstairs. When he returned, he was even more frustrated to find that Greg had obviously not moved a muscle in the intervening minutes. Not a hair out of place. Nothing to latch on to at all.

But Greg was not completely perfect, Curiosity got the better of him, and he turned his head to see that Sherlock had returned with his riding crop.

_Shit._

Sherlock smirked with exaggerated pleasantry, with a sour expression underlying it.

“Eyes front, Lestrade.”

_Lestrade is it, now?_

“Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir.”

Sherlock approached, and Greg suddenly felt a bit vulnerable and unsure of himself.

Now he’d see how committed to this game Lock really was, and he was rather dreading it. Greg did not get off on pain, except for things like biting and nipple twisting, and a bit of hair-pulling. Pain to enhance the throes of passion was one thing. But pain in and of itself did nothing for him. He was comfortable causing pain – measured, reasonable, consensual pain, when it was needed and asked for, and thoroughly negotiated. He could give pain when it was required of him, as it so often was in this lovely fucked-up fourway relationship. But he wasn’t a Holmes. He didn’t get hard every time he got a bloody papercut.

Sherlock stepped into position behind his older lover and prepared to carry out his threats. But then another problem presented itself. He realised he’d have to remove the harness to deliver a proper thrashing. And why were none of these thoughts horny at all?

He grunted, and began unbuckling Greg from the harness. Greg winced at bit at the less-than-gentle treatment and hoped Sherlock hadn’t forgotten the thing had a cock ring at the front.

“Take it all off,” Sherlock growled, irritably, giving up on doing it himself.

Greg flushed a little as he stood and worked himself free from the ring, then twisted the plug gently and removed it.

“Where shall I…?” he asked.

“Just drop it on the floor, I don’t care!” Sherlock shouted.

Greg winced at the tone. This was not going to be fun. But it had to be endured. A point had to be made.

He stayed standing for a while, because he hadn’t been ordered to bend back over.

“What are you waiting for? Bend over!” came the rather highly-strung voice from behind him.

Greg complied silently.

Sherlock brandished the crop, trying to summon up his former confidence.

He didn’t feel like a leather-trousered sex god anymore. He didn’t even feel sexy. He felt stupid and embarrassed, and the fact this upset him made him doubly furious. More than furious, he felt confused, and like he was about to burst into tears.

Without warning or warm-up, he let fly a stroke with the crop and it connected sharply with Greg’s exposed arse.

Greg gasped at the suddenness of it and gripped the back of the sofa hard to prevent himself shouting out.

Sherlock bit his lip and paused. Greg settled, patiently awaiting the next blow, like a very obedient, very good boy.

He delivered another stroke, and winced at the red welt it raised on his lover’s skin. Greg hissed through his teeth and grunted, just letting his punishment be mismanaged in a way that would never happen if the roles were reversed.

Sherlock was feeling a bit shaky now, and tried one more stroke of the crop. This one really did make Greg cry out, and he raised his hand, opening and closing his fingers unconsciously as he fought against the sting across his backside.

He didn’t safeword, but this little spontaneous gesture was simply too much for Sherlock. He threw the crop down and moved away, fighting the horrible guilty feeling that seemed to be choking him.

Greg stayed where he was.

“Sir…?” he asked, tentatively.

No answer.

“Sir, may I get up, Sir?” he tried again.

“Stop saying that!” wailed Sherlock in defeat.

That was all Greg could take too. He sprang up and reached his rather distressed-looking partner in a few long strides.

“Come here, you daft sod,” he said, comfortingly. Sherlock fell into his arms gratefully.

“Sorry, Greg. Sorry!” said Sherlock, a bit frantically.

Greg’s heart melted. “What are you sorry for, love?”

“I’m rubbish at it!” wailed Sherlock.

“What, being Sir?”

Sherlock shuddered dramatically. “Greg, yuck! Stop saying it, I hate it!”

“What, Sir?” teased Greg.

Sherlock shoved at him. “Ugh! Shut up! I’m not Sir, I’m Lockie! Want to be Lockie!” he babbled, sniffling a bit as a few unintentional tears fell.

Greg hugged him close and shushed him sympathetically.

“Aw, I know, Lockie. You daft lad!”

He kissed him repeatedly and stroked his back in comfort.

Sherlock gazed at him with something like awe.

“How do you do it?! How can you be all stern and ordery, and decide things all the time? Yeuch! It’s awful, Greg! It’s ghastly!”

Greg chuckled affectionately. “Cos I’m a hard-hearted bastard, me.”

Sherlock shook his head definitively. “No, you’re not. You’re good at it. You get it right, you’re compassionate and thoughtful. But when I do it, it’s just…horrid!”

Greg smiled and led them to the sofa, settling Lock back against his chest so he could pet him more easily. He softly spoke into his ear, pecking it with kisses at intervals and soothing his wounded pride with kind words.

“I hate to say it, but I told you you wouldn’t like it.”

Sherlock whinged and turned his head to look up into Greg’s eyes.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, gloomily.

"What, that little tapping you gave me with your silly riding crop? I've had bee stings more painful," scoffed Greg, theatrically.

Sherlock knew it was a lie, but he appreciated it all the same. Greg pecked his nose to make him giggle and break the tension.

“It’s just not your place, lovely boy. All that. Not your role. Doesn’t suit you at all. You couldn’t take your hand to any of us in any situation, and you can’t do it in play. That’s all right. You don’t need it. And what's more, you don't actually enjoy it, do you?”

“No… I mean, I like the idea. Sort of. But even then… Doesn’t feel right at all. With you especially. I just wanted to throw myself at you and let you do whatever you wanted!” 

“Ooh, there’s a dangerous admission, eh?” laughed Greg, fondly.

Sherlock snorted.

“What brought this on, anyway? Just fancied a change, or something else?” asked Greg, genuinely curious to learn.

“You’ll think I’m a wanker,” said Sherlock, gloomily.

“Nah, too late, I already think that,” joked Greg, delighted at the mock-glare he received.

“Well… I think… At the crime scene, last week…,” ventured Sherlock, tentatively.

Realisation dawned on Greg.

“Oh. Oh, sweetheart. When I had a go at you for going after the suspect without telling me, and all those coppers heard me giving you a bollocking?”

“Yeah…”

“Was this revenge, then? Or just a bit of a pride-restorer?”

Sherlock sighed. “Kind of both. I dunno.”

“Wanted to prove you could be in charge?”

“Maybe.”

“Aw,” said Greg, understanding completely. “It’s no fun, is it?”

“No. You don’t mind it though,” said Sherlock, wonderingly.

“Nope. Suits me fine. At work or at home. I don’t question it, me. Just feels right.”

“How do you handle it? All the bloody decisions and responsibilities and endlessly having to worry about whether you’re fucking it all up or not?!”

“Just get on with it. I’m not that complicated, love. That’s my main virtue, you know,” said Greg with a grin and a conspiratorial wink.

Sherlock tutted. “I think you’re insane.”

“Yeah, I think so too. But you must be even more batshit, letting an idiot like me tell you what to do, and rolling over for me every time I tickle your tummy…”

“Greg, stop!” Sherlock howled and wiggled and kicked as Greg tickled him mercilessly. Greg relented once Sherlock was truly limp with released tension.

“My Lockie. Silly boy, trying to pretend you’re not happiest underneath me. Or that randy flatmate of yours. Or the British Government, the big softie.”

“Or all of you at the same time. Yeah,” sighed Sherlock, with relief and satisfaction at being allowed to just be himself.

“I do like your new leather trews though…,” said Greg, huskily. He nuzzled into his lover’s long neck, delighting in the sensation of curly hair tickling his face.

“I thought you might. So do I,” rumbled Sherlock in his seductive baritone.

“Mm. Been wanting to get you out of them ever since you walked in,” said Greg, hotly. “Or keep you in them, and see what fun things we could get up to with those easy-access flaps, and that zip up your arsecrack.”

Sherlock moaned as Greg’s hand snaked down his bare chest and tweaked his nipples. “Ooh…”

Greg chuckled darkly into the shell of his lover’s pixie-like ear.

“Be a good boy for me, and roll over. That’s a bloody order.”

Sherlock thrust his hips up into the air, his bare cock pressing urgently against the restrictive trousers. He batted his eyelashes self-consciously. “Anything you say, Sir.”

He smirked and span himself round, giggling slightly at the creaking noise made by the tight leather.

Greg moved to let his lanky partner lie full length on the sofa, and he straddled him, pinning him with his bodyweight. Sherlock let out a sigh of relief at the security he felt at being completely held down.

Greg stoked down the long, pale back, delighting as always in the expanse of soft, smooth flesh. He ran his fingers down, counting each rib.

His Lock was such a strong creature in such deceptively fragile form. It never ceased to amaze him how resilient the boy was. Not a boy at all, of course. An independent man with a mind like a steel trap. An extraordinary human plagued by demons, constantly grappling with the angels of his better nature, and yet so sweet, so pure sometimes he couldn’t fathom it. This man, so seemingly otherworldly, but as flawed and frail as anyone else on the planet, had chosen him for a lover. This man trusted him implicitly with everything – his mind, his body, his love. Trusted him with John. Trusted him with his beloved brother. This beautiful man trusted him to know exactly what to do.

Sherlock sensed his lover’s hesitation above him, and mistook it for uncertainty rather than deep contemplation of all the ways in which he was adored.

“I need…”

Greg leaned down and kissed him between the shoulder blades. “Ssh. I know what you need,” he said, softly, kissing his way down the long spine. “Never have to worry about that. Nothing’s changed at all.”

“Yeah,” Sherlock whispered, touched beyond measure, shivering with every burning kiss down his back. He closed his eyes in contentment. “Not at all.”

Greg smiled and moved his face to that magnificent arse, tightly encased in the provoking trousers. He sniffed up and down, breathing in leather and pheromones. He hummed in pleasure, and his senses swam.

Sherlock writhed and pushed his arse up, urging his lover on, then yipped as Greg bit down hard on his left buttock.

“Ow!”

Greg transferred his attentions to the right buttock, and bit that too.

Sherlock gasped. “Greg!”

Greg smirked and took the little zip at the top of his lover’s leather-clad backside between his teeth, and pulled it down. He groaned as Lock’s luscious cheeks were revealed, and he admired the two pink marks left by his teeth. Sherlock moaned as Greg nosed up his crack, kissing and licking him everywhere he could reach.

He felt Greg’s strong hands parting his cheeks, felt his hot breath huffing on his most intimate area, and heard the lustful growl in his lover’s chest.

When Greg’s tongue finally made contact with his exposed hole, he howled what Greg always called his ‘wolf cub’ howl - the noise he made when he was totally given over to pleasure.

Greg massaged his lover’s flesh as he devoured him, and Sherlock shook from head to toe. His cock was leaking into his leather trousers and he couldn’t get any friction at all, which kept him in a needy, nearly-satisfied state.

“Pleeaaase…,” he ground out in a deep, throaty tone. He felt Greg’s vulpine smirk against his arsehole, and shivered as Greg’s bristly, stubbled chin rubbed lightly against his perineum. The rough sensation merely added to his sensory overload.

Greg yanked him by the waistband of his trousers, and he moved onto his knees willingly. With frantic haste now, Greg fiddled underneath, finding the popper of the flap at that covered his lover’s crotch. He popped it open, and Sherlock’s prick, long and heavy, sprang free, dripping onto the sofa.

Sherlock sighed as he was unleashed, and thrust into the air, demanding contact. Greg stroked him with rough, steady movements, rubbing precome over the plump head. He tickled at Sherlock’s fraenulum, knowing how sensitive it was for him. As expected, his gentle fingers elicited delighted moans and squeals, and Sherlock gasped for breath as he was relentlessly teased.

He jerked and moaned, and Greg couldn’t deny himself any longer. He gripped Sherlock’s hips firmly, digging into the leather and using it for leverage.

“Still. Be still, Boy,” he ordered, softly. Sherlock stilled instantly, whimpering at the tone of command.

Greg’s prick was hot with need, the thick tip of him engorged and ready. He masturbated himself, grunting as he indulged in the sight of Lock’s plush, pale bottom framed in black leather, peeping out from the zipper like a split peach.

Sherlock's pretty hole was already damp from the deep tonguing, but not yet wet enough. Greg brought his fingers round to his lover’s mouth.

“Suck those. Make them wet. They’re going inside you,” he said, roughly.

Sherlock whined with need and did as he was told, sucking desperately.

Greg was as good as his word, working the spit-slick fingers into Lock’s waiting arse, wiggling them to make room for himself.

Then he rummaged for the lube in the side pocket of the leather trousers. He was seriously considering forbidding Sherlock from ever removing them.

He slicked himself up, spreading lube and precome over his aching prick, and plunged his wet fingers back inside. Sherlock was moaning repeatedly now, thrusting his hips back and forth, urging Greg to fill him. The exposure front and back, in stark contrast to the rest of his clothed lower half, had heightened his awareness and made him even more than usually sensitised.

“Need you, Greg. Fucking take me!”

“Oi, saucy. Behave yourself,” chuckled Greg, as he pressed himself into his lover’s moist opening. He sank in easily, despite the relative lack of prep. Sherlock was so ready for him. He moaned ardently as he took possession.

Sherlock wailed, and spread his knees as wide as he could without falling off the sofa. He dropped his curly head down, and groaned into the cushions as he was penetrated by the burning brand of Greg’s cock, addicted to the way the girth of it stretched him open and caused such a sweet ache in the very depths of his body.

“Oh, my Lock. Jesus, can’t get over it,” mumbled Greg, almost to himself. “The way you feel. Hot and tight round me. God…Touch yourself. Do it for me, so I can feel it,” he begged, as he thrust slowly in and out, savouring every inch of him.

Sherlock took himself in hand and ran his palm over his leaking cock just as he liked it, curving over the head and thumbing at his slit. It made his arse flutter and Greg’s eyes rolled back in his head.

Sherlock clenched down, making himself even tighter, and Greg moaned helplessly as the ridge below his crown rubbed deliciously up inside his lover’s body. With a twist of the hips he found the spot he was looking for, and Sherlock’s little wolf cub noise became a full, wild howl. His face screwed up with pleasure, and he exclaimed loudly with every brutal thrust of Greg’s hips. Greg drove into the pliant body again and again, grunting and panting haphazardly in counterpoint to the steady rhythmic slap of flesh on taut leather.   

Greg leaned forwards, pressing Sherlock down from behind as he reached for his cock.

“Wanna make you come…so much, oh, please, baby boy…” Greg’s voice was hoarse and desperate, and Sherlock unravelled, focusing on his pleasure, letting Greg wring it out of him.

“N-now… Oh! Greg, now…!” he pleaded, and then it happened. He fell completely silent as his orgasm overwhelmed him. Greg’s thick cock never ceased pummelling, and he was driven over the cliff, his stomach flipping as his body released a jet of semen all over the sofa.

The pulsating, throbbing feeling of Sherlock’s orgasm was simply too good for Greg to bear. He sped to the point of no return, and his hips locked out as he spurted his load deep into his lover’s gut. Blood rushed in his ears, and the world became silent - it was all about this.

Eventually he stilled and Sherlock, as was his habit, began to giggle in the aftermath. He clenched his inner muscles against Greg’s softening prick, and Greg slapped his arse playfully to make him stop.

Greg extracted himself, and Sherlock collapsed beneath him, utterly spent and completely satisfied. Greg snorted at the cherubic look of contentment on his handsome face. He reached for the box of tissues on the coffee table, and cleaned them up a bit. Then collapsed, causing a little ‘oof’ of protest.

“Gre-e-e-g?” said Sherlock, sleepily, after a little recovery time.

Greg's eyes blinked open. “Mm, yes, love?”

“Could you help me take my trousers off? They’re all hot and sticking to me!”

Greg laughed delightedly.

“Too lazy to undress yourself now? Bloody cheek. What did your last slave die of?”

Sherlock snorted. “I was a rotten Master, so I set him free, and now all I get are sarky comments off him.”

“I’ll help you take your trousers off, baby, yeah. Do you want me to talc yer bum as well?”

“Do shut up, Lestrade," came the unimpressed reply.

Greg persisted. How he loved being annoying when Sherlock was trapped beneath him.

“Aw, gone all babyish and subby now? Want yer Papa to undress you?”

“No, I haven't, and no I don't! I'm not Mycroft!”

“Yeah, you have. Gone all Soppy Lockie for me. Want me to carry you up to bed, put you in your jim-jams? Could bring you up a bottle. Shame to let that milk go to waste…,” said Greg, in his most infuriatingly teasing tone.

Both men felt completely relaxed now they were back on familiar territory - aggravating each other to distraction.

“Greg, stop being an insufferable dickhead!”

“Bet you’d love all that, you little perv."

Sherlock turned to glare daggers at him, then he relented.

“Actually, it does sound quite nice,” he chuckled. "Then I really wouldn't have to worry about stupid things like decisions and cleaning up after myself."

Greg laughed. “Yeah, I bet it sounds nice. Spoiled brat that you are. Doesn’t matter what game you’re playing. Anything to get out of the housework, eh?”

Sherlock gave him an impertinent smirk. 

"Some of us, Gregory Lestrade, are too sexy for housework. Some of us have people to do it for us."

"Yeah. Willing bloody victims, all of us."

"Exactly. You're fools to yourself."

"Well, I'll let it slide, you lazy sod," said Greg, generously, pressing a kiss to the back of his lover's neck. "As long as you don't forget who's boss."

"Yes, sir," said Sherlock, happily. "Whatever you say, sir."


	7. John and Greg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's John's turn to get his Date Night wish - and he hasn't forgotten what he promised Greg the last time. See Chapter 1 for details, darlings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven't updated this for a while and been dying to get back to it. Have a lot lined up, still updating 'Duo, Trio' and hacking away at others. I am still alive and kicking (or should I say kinking?), I promise. Just something silly to get me moving again. x

Greg arrived back in his own home whistling a happy tune. He hung up his coat, chucked his keys on the side, and took his shoes off, groaning in relief after a day of pavement pounding. He stretched and turned his head from side to side to relieve the crick in his neck. Best to limber up. It was Date Night with Johnnyboy, and he was going to get laid good and proper.

“John, you in?”

“Yep! All right?” The blond(ish) bombshell emerged into the hallway, grinning broadly.

Greg opened his arms and John filled them, pressing himself in close for a deep kiss.

“Mm. You taste all minty," said John, licking his lips.

Greg grinned. "Yeah, tarted myself up in the gym at work. Clean as a whistle, ready to rock. How was your day, love?”

"Same old. Playgroup for the girl. Interviewing a witness on a landfill site while Sherlock dug through layers of assorted filth and crap. Washing assorted filth and crap off Sherlock in the bath. Mopping up bubbles and water for an hour afterwards.”

“Oh, no. You brought him here for a bath?!”

“Yep, Myc’s banned him from bathtime at his place unless he’s there to restrain him. Plus Duckward is here, and he refuses to bathe – “

Greg snorted. “Without Duckward, yeah, I know.” Sherlock’s rubber duck was a totemic figure, and he had been told in no uncertain terms that it was a signal honour to be entrusted with his keeping. “Not too messy upstairs now, is it?”

“Nah. It’s stopped dripping through the ceiling. Lock’s been packed off to be babysat by his big brother and his goddaughter. Sorted. How was your day, sexpot?”

“Fucking tedious,” sighed Greg good-naturedly.

John made a sympathetic face. “Fancy a night off with me, then?”

“Yeah. Your choice, I believe. Please, please say you want to give me an hour-long massage and put me to bed with a hot water bottle,” pleaded Greg, only half-joking.

“Oh, yeah, you’d love that.” John scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Proper old git date.”

“So what is it, then? Bowling, cinema, nice spot of dinner somewhere?”

John snickered with a tone Greg instantly recognised as ominous.

“Not exactly.”

“Right…”

“Come through, Gregory, me old china plate,” he said, with excessive chirpiness. “I’ve got a bit of kit to show you.”

John moved to the living room with a bounce in his step, and Greg followed on, unsure whether to be aroused or worried. As soon as he saw the equipment on the coffee table, he realised the answer was both, and he knew he was in trouble.

“Bloody hell, Watson. This is a new low for you. Just cos I made you wear naughty netball knickers?!”

John grinned unrepentantly.

“Well, I did warn you, didn’t I?”

He gestured graciously to the items he had purchased after their last Date Night, and gleefully kept hidden away from his lover’s prying eyes.

A black metal-studded collar. A short leather lead. A black butt plug, about five inches long,  with a cute and perky little rubber tail swishing upwards like an apostrophe.

Greg glared at the assorted canine accoutrements with dismay.

“This is why I’ve been bombarded with texts all day, isn’t it? Myc saying ‘have a lovely date, don’t get too hot under the collar’. Lock sending an endless barrage of those stupid yellow laughing faces. Spank the arse off them both, insufferable little sods! And you too, when this is over.”

John compressed his lips and tried very hard not to laugh at his partner’s affronted frown.

“Just hear me out. Haven’t let me say the words yet – I want you to be my puppy, Greg. What do you say? Gonna play ball? Fetch the stick for me?””

Greg sighed deeply and ran his hand over his face. He was a man of honour. It was a curse.

“Bloody pervert. Oh… Yeah, all right. Chuffing Nora. Have your fun. Don’t be surprised if I bite your ankle and piss up your leg.”

He scowled with very bad grace, and John slapped his arm in protest.

“Don’t be grumpy. Got kneepads for you and everything.”

Greg looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Dunno whether to be grateful or insulted.”

“Oh, treat yourself to a bit of both,” said John, unable to suppress his obvious glee any longer.

Greg folded his arms and regarded his very smug boyfriend. It was bad enough having two egregiously smug boyfriends already, without this one joining the conspiracy of smugness against him.

“Mate… Date Night is supposed to be for things you’d actually find sexy, not just opportunities to humiliate me and get your own back for past grievances! I know I was a pain in the arse with the netball thing, but I really did fancy you in it!” he protested, trying to inspire a bit of guilt and have the whole thing called off.

His lover stepped in to cuddle him.

“Aw. I’m not just being a twat, promise. Just wanted to play a bit different, try something out. You on all fours… Does turn me on, actually.”

John rubbed his hard-on against his lover’s leg to validate the statement. Greg wasn’t exactly surprised. He sighed indulgently.

“Get on with it, you little sadist.”

John hopped back and clapped his hands together with pleasure.

“Strip off, then. Let’s see your natural fur.”

“Here?!”

“Where else?” said John, with a smirk. “Doggies aren’t allowed in the bedroom.”

Greg grumbled and took his clothes off until he stood starkers in his own living room, as he had so many times before. He had a feeling the bloody sofa was due another spoiling.

John handed him a pair of cyclist’s kneepads with a disingenuously nonchalant air. He put them on, already feeling completely idiotic, certain that nude-with-kneepads was not his best look. 

John disagreed and wolf-whistled him, much to his mortification.

“Right, on all fours then, boy.”

Greg almost whinged like Sherlock as he got down to his creaking knees, though he was pleased the cushioned pads seemed ample enough to stop him getting bruised or achy. He looked up at the man he supposed he’d have to start thinking of as his master, or owner, or something equally ridiculous.

“This is… Is this weird John?” he said, nose wrinkling with uncertainty.

John shrugged.

“Uh, yeah. Course it’s weird. That’s the point. It’s just playtime. I don’t want to shag an actual dog, Greg!” he said, indignantly.

“Yeah, I know,” muttered Greg, tutting. “Just feel a right wazzock already.”

John leaned down and ruffled his lover’s hair.

“Nah, you’re gonna be a lovely puppy for Daddy, aren’t you, boy?”

Greg grimaced and John clicked his tongue in disapproval, then grabbed his new playthings from the table.

“Right. Collar. Lead,” he said, concentrating as he attached them. Greg gulped a bit as the sturdy leather collar went round his neck. He was not usually the one wearing a collar, or any other kind of restraint. But puppies wore collars, and he was a puppy now. John tested it with his fingers to make sure there was enough of a gap between the leather and his pup’s soft skin. He trailed the short lead over Greg’s bare back, letting him feel the extent of it, gently encouraging him to get into the right headspace.

Greg huffed a bit and wiggled, ducking his head. John took pity and decided to talk him through the next steps of his transformation.

“Mm, good boy. Now, let’s see, what else does my pup need? Oh, yeah. How are you gonna obey my commands if you can’t hear me?”

John rummaged in the coffee table drawer and produced a pair of grey fluffy ears on a hairband, which he’d kept as a lovely little surprise. Greg glared balefully up at him as John placed them on his head, then arranged his hair until they almost looked natural.

“Aw, you’re a cutie. Looks like you just grew them!”

“Enjoying yourself, Watson?” growled Greg, feeling more canine by the second.

“Oi. Don’t make me draw a nose and whiskers on you, cos I will. Now, what else do puppies have? Oh yeah! Tails! Look pup, lovely tail for you.”

He held the little tail plug in front of Greg’s eyes.

Greg rolled his eyes. “For God’s sake!”

John reached over and smacked his bottom with a hefty hand.

“Don’t be a naughty pup! Turn round and present, there’s a good boy.”

Greg ducked his head and turned round on all fours, lowering his chest to the floor submissively and leaning on his forearms. He spread his knees and pushed his bare bum out towards his triumphant lover, feeling heat suffuse his face. It wasn't often he was the one exposed like this, bent over, waiting for something to be pushed up his arse. Apart from the last time he'd played with Sherlock, and that had been a bloody disaster. Before it had turned into a raging success, of course.

John hummed his approval at his doggy's obedience. 

Greg heard him squeezing lube from a bottle to slick up the plug. Then he felt John's slippery finger anointing his exposed arsehole, circling it gently, coaxing him to relax. 

"There's a good lad..." crooned John, sincerely. Greg was embarrassed to find himself rather enjoying the praise. He pushed back further to signal to John that he was ready for more, and John breached him slowly with his forefinger. He exhaled as he was penetrated, relaxing into the sensation of John taking command of his body. The questing finger moved in and out, pushing more firmly to open him. Then John placed his other hand on the base of Greg's back and pressed down. Greg sank lower and his arse bloomed further open, ready to take John's second finger. 

Watson's fingers were a marvel. Lock was giddy for them and liked to make pencil sketches of them. Mycroft could compose sonnets about them. Greg just thought they were ruddy brilliant - thick, blunt, very well-practiced at all kinds of naughty medical tricks. Like - "Ah!" - that, for example. 

"Jesus, John!" 

He whimpered in a very puppylike manner as John crooked his skillful digits upwards to push at his prostate, then massaged the spongy gland between them. Greg keened as he was stimulated, and his prick began to leak though it hadn't yet been touched. He wondered whether John was going to milk him to an unsatisfying climax just to put him in his place, but he didn't dare ask in case it put the idea in the evil bastard's head.

John grinned crookedly behind his lover's back as he rubbed him from the inside, delighted by the high-pitched whines he was hearing. He was right where he wanted to be; deep in Greg's arse, controlling his pleasure, with the brilliantly horny knowledge that he was being allowed to. Greg giving it up for him was a huge turn on.

Out of all of them, he was the one who really wanted Greg to give it up the most. Mycie loved taking his Gregory, when the D.I. told him to, or got desperate enough to beg for a rogering on the elder Holmes's lovely big cock. Mostly that happened when all four of them romped together and Greg wanted the dual stimulation fore and aft. Mycie was such a voyeur that buggering Greg in a four-way meant he got to look over his shoulder to see baby brother and lovely Johnny being done at the same time. Lock would sometimes shove it in Greg too, though he far preferred bending over for him. But when Sherlock was called upon to go on top, he went wild for the way Lestrade instructed him on what to do and called him a good bonny lad for getting it just right. But neither Holmes wanted Greg to really submit to them. John did. On occasion. Because he could get their older lover to a place where he wasn't trying to top from the bottom. Because Captain Watson could get the macho idiot to roll over for him and beg, and it thrilled him to be the one to dominate him. 

Greg was almost howling with overstimulation now, and John relented, pulling out as Greg panted with harsh breaths. 

"Ooh, you fucker!" complained the older man, half-heartedly. 

John smacked him again. 

"Not yet I'm not. Shut it and hold still."

He picked up the lubricated plug and held it in front of Greg's nose, then moved behind him again. He took hold of the dog-lead connected to his collar, and pulled it gently, at the same time as he pushed the plug into his bottom.

Greg moaned at the sensation of the rubber plug entering his sensitized passage - it was wider than John's two fingers. The pull on his neck lent the action a wicked eroticism. His breath was not constricted, but it still felt mildly dangerous, and it gave John full control. The mix of penetration and restriction went straight to Greg's cock, and it pulsed and twitched in midair between his legs.

“In it goes," said John, loving the way Greg squirmed when he tugged on the lead and pushed the plug in up to the hilt. "There. A lovely healthy tail."

He flicked the little black rubber protrusion with his finger and watched it spring back on itself. Greg whined as it nudged the plug against his sweet spot, and he humped against nothing.

"Aw. Liked that, didn't you? Honestly, it looks adorable," said John, in his best teasing voice. "Waggle it for me, doggy? Happy doggies always wag." 

Greg grunted in defiance, and John pinged his tail again. 

"I said wag, naughty pup."

Greg did as he was told, wiggling his bum from side to side. He was not accustomed to moving his hips quite like that, let alone performing cute tricks on command.

John chuckled appreciatively. “Ooh, you’re a perfect specimen of the breed, aren’t you? A Lestrade Retriever, no, a Husky. No, more of a Mastiff! All muscle and growl. Great pedigree." He knelt beside his lover and cupped the heavy, low-hanging balls beneath him. 

"Just look at these! Lovely and tight. Win prizes for that. Daddy take you to Krufts next year, doggy."

Greg looked round at him with a menacing glare, which John ignored. 

"Yeah. Good breeding stock, you are. Have to send you out to stud, won’t I? All those lucky bitches...”

Greg flushed red and tried very hard not to give the tormenting bastard the satisfaction of a reaction. 

“Now… Need a name for my new doggy…,” continued John, pretending to think hard. Greg caught the naughty glint in his eye.

“Oh, no, don’t give me a name!” he complained, in spite of himself. 

John clicked his fingers. 

“How about Rex? That’s nice a butch name for a great big silly pup like you, isn’t it?”

Greg shook his head in despair. 

“You're a bloody rotter, Watson," he grumbled. "Well, Rex doesn’t sound too bad. Thought it’d be Fluffy or Fifi or something...”

“Can always change it if you don’t behave," said John, pleasantly. 

“Dickhead.”

John smacked him again with a feral smirk. 

“No backchat, Rexyboy. Or I'll ship you off to Battersea Dog's Home to have your bollocks chopped off.”

"Bastard," muttered Greg. "Ow!"

“Yeah, dogs can’t actually talk, did you know that? Think we'll have a bit of shutting up.” 

To Greg's horror, John began rummaging in the coffee table drawer once again. What bloody now?!

John held up a rubber dog bone to his lover's mouth, pinched his nose to make him open his jaw and shoved it between his admittedly rather canine teeth. 

“Mmf!" protested Rex. But he knew better than to drop it. 

“You can do better than that, boy," said John, sternly. "Give us a nice loud growl."

"Grrr!"

John giggled, and removed the chew toy from his doggy's mouth.

"And now a little woof, go on," he prompted.

Greg decided to just go with the flow. Anything for a giggle, really. 

“Wuff! Wuff!” he barked, trying not to snort with laughter himself.

John patted him all over his back, and stroked at him with brisk hands. 

“Aw. Who’s a good boy, then, eh? Yes, he is! Rrrrffrrrfrfff!” 

Rex snarled playfully and moved round to face his owner, waggling his tail and snapping jaws at his calves.

John laughed as Greg came up on his hind legs and pawed at him like a big, dopey dog welcoming his master home after a long absence. He ruffled his hands through the pup's hair and tickled behind his doggy ears, as well as his human ones.

"Yeah, there he is. There's my big boy!" 

The pup nuzzled into his master's groin, sniffing all around, scent-checking him and growling territorially. 

"Ooh, naughty pup!" exclaimed John, as his cock was rubbed through his jeans. 

Rex tried to undo his fly buttons with his mouth but couldn't quite manage. He was just about to cheat and use his hands, when they were smacked by Daddy. 

"No. Bad Rex. Paws off. Down boy. Down. Sit!"

Greg glared balefully up, and the glint in Watson's eye convinced him to do as he was told. He sat, looking up with wide brown puppy eyes. He even whined in his throat for sympathy. He didn't like it when Daddy was cross. 

John frowned down at him. "Not the leader of the pack today, are you, pup-pup, eh? Know who's boss today? Me. Need a bit of training, don't you?"

Greg wuffed in agreement and panted with his tongue out. 

John smirked. 

"But if we're going to play nicely, think I might take these off after all. Don't want you ripping them to shreds with your doggy claws."

He slipped his jeans off and stood in just his pants and t-shirt, then he picked up Rex's lead and pulled him along. 

"Think we're going to have a little walk, boy." 

Greg pulled back in alarm. 

"Not outside, silly, just round the house!" tutted John, tugging at him. "Heel boy. Heel."

Rex made a little doggy noise of agreement and padded behind his master on hands and thankfully protected knees. They completed a few circuits round the ground floor of the house. John led his pet back into the open-plan kitchen, where two metal bowls had been placed on the floor. 

Greg made a very human-sounding sigh and John chuckled at him disingenuously. 

"Water and some dog biccies for you, after all that exercise. Go on, eat some for Daddy. Got to keep you in good nick, haven't we? Want your coat all glossy and your nose all nice and wet."

Rex glared back at him, and padded over to his bowls with curiosity. He bent down, wiggling his bum and bouncing his tail around as he lapped at the water bowl, struggling to get any into his mouth. Then he moved to the food bowl and snuffled at it. It was something of a relief to discover that dog biccies were indistinguishable from crumbled up chocolate Hobnobs. He looked up at his master with a canine grin, and John smirked at him with supreme self-satisfaction. 

"Go on, boy. Num-nums."

The overgrown pup nibbled at his biccies, licking the crumbs from his lips and making a show of eating rather messily. He shook his head as he munched, spreading crumbs all about the floor, then went back to his water bowl to wash them from his face. When he looked back up it was with a big toothy grin and a little bark of pleasure. Num-nums was fun. And Daddy would be cleaning up the crumbs later, not Rex.

John patted his thighs to beckon his new pet over. 

"Come on, boy. Good boy!" He grabbed Rex's head and planted firm, possessive kisses over his head. "Mm, he smells of yummy biccies. Think our two boys might enjoy playing with you, Rexyboy. Think I'll be flavour of the month if I give Lock and Mycie a nice doggy - for life, not just for Christmas, eh?" he teased.

Greg scowled up at him, a 'don't you dare, Watson' threatening to burst out at any moment. 

John winked and kissed his nose. 

"Now, I'm gonna let you off the lead for a bit. You go for a little scamper for Daddy, eh?"

Rex nodded and wuffed in the affirmative, though he looked a bit worried about having to improvise free from instruction. 

John unclipped his lead and rubbed his lover's bare back, then patted his bum towards the living room. 

"Off you go, boy. Go play." 

Rex moved a little faster and did his best to 'scamper' convincingly. John sat on the sofa to watch. 

Greg spent a bit of time familiarising himself with his own house from a dog's perspective. He had a good sniff round the table, a little investigative look in the pot plants, scratched at the wainscotting (and was told off with a sharp 'no!'). He hid behind the sofa, and romped about with abandon, naked and free, tail held high.

"Here, boy, look!" said John, in a happy voice. He held up a soft blue ball for Rex to see, waving if from side to side. The pup sprang up with keen interest and followed its every move with his head, waiting to see which way Daddy would throw it. 

John chucked it behind him and the doggy raced to fetch it, coming up on this back feet for a bit of extra speed. The knees could only take so much, padded or not. John watched his naked lover chase the ball with complete affection - as heart-warmed as he was horny at the way Greg just went with whatever he suggested. 

Rex trotted back over with the ball between his jaws, waggling his eyebrows at his master as though to say 'See, I found it!' and also 'I'll play any bloody game you want, Watson.'

John grinned as the soggy ball was dropped into his lap. He chucked it again in the opposite direction, and again the pup went for it and brought it back in his teeth. The game continued for a few more throws, until Rex began to tire of Fetch. He mooched around and found his chewy bone again. He gnawed on it for a while, ignoring his master. Playing hard to get.

He eyed John sneakily and smirked as he had a go at licking his own balls, for realism's sake. He couldn't get his neck down very far. Lock would have been able to manage it, no doubt. Lock could bend himself into shapes and get his whole cock into his mouth. But Rex was an old dog, and he couldn't be taught many new tricks.

John observed the attempt at autofellatio and chuckled in delight at the performance. As always with Greg, they trod the line between the erotic and the comic, both loving how they could mess about and turn each other on in equal measure. They were just casual, cosy buggers with dirty minds, he supposed - with nothing but encouragement and bad influence from the other half of their filthy foursome.

Greg shuffled over, but then a stroke of Holmesian genius hit. He flipped over onto his back, rubbing himself on the carpet as though scratching an itch. His tail poked out underneath him and the plug inside his arse wiggled deliciously around. It felt nice, so he kept doing it, aware of his hardening cock waggling against his stomach. He made an assortment of noises, from whines to grunts, to barks, to little howls of pleasure as he explored his animal instincts, thrusting his hips back and forth to rock against his tail. 

"Aw, sweet pup. Gone in heat, have you? Think I have too...," said John, laying back to watch him with one hand down the front of his pants. 

Rex caught his master at it, and quickly rolled back over onto all fours. He launched himself at the sofa and clambered on top of John, who had the breath knocked out of him by the big enthusiastic beast. Rex was excited, and wanted to show his Daddy just how much. He humped against his leg with abandon, whimpering as he rubbed his oversized, dripping erection onto John's leg.

"Oi, you mucky pup, bloody hell... No! Down boy!" giggled John, shoving and pushing at the unmanageable handful Rex had become. 

"Grrr...rrrruff!"

"Greg! I mean, Rex! Bad boy! No humping!" 

John snorted with helpless laughter, feeling stickiness against his bare leg. He reached around and grabbed his doggy's rubbery tail, giving it a little yank which made him keen in a high-pitched tone. 

"Dirty dog!" 

Rex barked in agreement, and whined again when Daddy took hold of his big cock and pulled on that too. 

"Poor pup, all wound up, aren't you?"

Greg snuffled into John's collarbone and licked at his neck, then all round his ears and face. He panted heavily with his tongue out and John squealed at the tingling, tickling sensation of his lover's hot breath in his ear. 

"Oi, stop that!"

Greg persisted with a grin more lupine than canine now, and nuzzled John's convulsing stomach, pushing his t-shirt higher with his nose and dragging it up with his teeth. John whipped it off until he lay back on the sofa in only his pants. Greg made a play of sniffing down his lover's flat stomach, then took John's waistband between his teeth and yanked the pants down over his lover's raging hard-on. He growled as he wrestled them down his legs, then sprang back up over John's naked form with a triumphant howl. 

John lay back with his arms above his head. 

"Wild dog, eh? Not a nice house pup for me anymore?"

Rex shook his head from side to side, and waggled his tail again. 

John hummed and gave him a narrow look. 

"I know what to do with wild pups. No good me letting you misbehave like this, is it? Need to be shown your place in the pecking order."

Rex cocked his head with a baffled frown, and his ears bounced adorably. 

John smiled darkly.

"Rex," he said with a husky rumble in his voice. "Roll over."

Greg compressed his lips to stop himself smirking, and his human ears went a bit tingly and hot. He fell back whining, as though cowering from the alpha dog. He rolled over onto his back again, wincing a bit as the plug sank into him and kissed at his prostate. He held his hands up bent at the wrists like paws, and brought his knees up to mimic omega-like submission. 

John loomed over him on all fours. 

"God, those ears are cute," he said with a wink, and kissed his lover full on the mouth, lowering himself on top of him to rub their cocks together.

Greg whined in the back of his throat, sounding more like himself than his canine alter-ego now. 

"Don't say anything, babe," instructed John. "Just sounds, yeah? Let's get a bit...bestial."

Greg huffed his compliance and gave a low grunt for good measure.

"Keeping your collar on, but I think I'm going to have to dock that little tail of yours. Gonna put something much bigger in its place..." 

John's eyes flashed with desire as he took the tip of the tail and slowly worked the plug out of his lover's arse, wiggling it just to tease. Greg exhaled as it popped out, and pulled his knees up higher. 

John licked his fingers and shoved them back inside, erring on the rough-side because Greg liked it that way. He felt the hot clutch of his lover's tight internal muscle and increased the resistance. Greg reached for his partner's erection, and John groaned as he was wanked back to full hardness. He shivered with sheer pleasure.

"Turn over." 

John shifted to let his partner roll and then pulled him up on all fours to present that magnificent arse once again.

Greg smirked over his shoulder, cocking his head to the side so that his ears tilted slightly on his head. "Don't tell me - doggy style?" he said, cheekily.

"Yep," confirmed John, then smacked his bottom for talking. 

"Wait, hang on... John!" protested Greg, suddenly. John pulled back, fearing his partner had suddenly got cold feet. Or paws. 

"Problem?"

"I know you're running the show here, love. But seriously - we can't do it on the sofa again. I've just had it dry cleaned! Bed, please? Like normal people? Well, dog-people. I'll go upstairs on all fours if you like - but puppies really shouldn't be fucked on the sofa. House rule."

John snorted with laughter and relented. 

"Yeah, all right. Up you get boy. Upstairs for Daddy." 

Greg scurried off the sofa and did his best to stay on all fours, though he used his feet instead of his knees and quickly shucked off the kneepads. His bare bum looked even barer without its tail. John kind of missed its presence.

"Keep that collar on - and the ears!" he called, running after him in the nude. "Or I'll put a kennel in the garden next time..." 

"Woof woof!" 

Greg leapt on the bed, even going so far as to move in a circle a few times before settling down on his haunches. 

"Give you woof-woof."

John bundled into him and they kissed with a passion, carried away by their mutual madness. For a moment, they were just John and Greg, sliding and frotting together as usual. Greg grasped his lover's muscular buttocks in his hands and jiggled up and down against him. 

Then John pinned his lover's hands above his head and growled at him doggily, biting at his neck to quell him. Greg whined and turned his head to the side, acknowledging John's dominance. 

John encouraged Greg over by nudging at him with his forehead, and the older man arched his back, presenting his arse up for inspection. John did what he knew he was going to do from the very start of this - he sniffed and licked at his lover's backside, scenting him and tasting the heady combination of musk and pheromones and lube. He nudged his nose into his moist, winking hole, causing him to give a most un-Greg-like little squeal of shock. John smirked as he lapped at him, moving lower to reach his sensitive perineum and balls. 

"Can't lick your own balls, boy. Need someone to do it for you."

"Aaah...," agreed Greg incoherently as he was tongued and snuffled at. 

When John had brought them both to the brink of desperation, he forcefully shoved Greg's torso down to the mattress and pulled his hips back up to level with his groin. 

Greg had the distinct feeling he was being mounted. 

John grunted deeply and panted as he nudged the swollen head of his cock at Greg's twitching opening. Without further ado he shoved inside. Greg moaned as he was forced wider. He bore down and let his lover's thick cock slide in deep. Bottoming for John was a treat and a half. His arse stretched wonderfully around his thickness.

John angled his hips and aimed upwards, heading straight for the target which he knew made Greg go crazy - and shout, and push back, and give as good as he got.

"Ooh yeah, you randy mutt," teased John in a gruff voice.

Greg increased his exertions, thrusting back fast on his lover's hard prick, matching him with every stroke. 

"Harder, Watson, come on! Put your bloody back into it!"

John smacked his arse hard and rode him for all he was worth, shoving him forwards so that his face smushed into the pillow and his fluffy ears finally fell off. Greg groaned loudly into the fabric, which muffled his urgent cries and stopped the next door neighbours knocking on the wall again. 

"Don't fucking tell me what to do...," panted John with a wicked grin, the sweat pouring off him as he fucked with all the athleticism his stocky build allowed for. "Take it, boy!" 

Greg was breathless and frantic now. "Yeah?!"

"Yeah, yeah," moaned John with every push of his groin. 

He was frantic with lust, in balls deep, hammering away at his sturdy, gorgeously muscular lover as he took him for a rough ride. He twisted his hips and moved in a smooth circular motion, which drew long, continuous oohs and aahs from them both. Then he switched pace again, and rogered Greg with short, fast thrusts, throwing his head back and losing himself in tight heat and vicious friction. 

Greg sounded almost pained with pleasure as he was fucked to the limit. He felt feral, and believed himself to be the beast his lovers - only half-jokingly - said he was. He was frankly in heaven, where all dogs went. 

"John!" he cried out, brokenly. "Oh, Johnny... Now!"

John slowed his thrusting to move more rhythmically, rocking instead of pummelling in and out. 

Greg gasped raggedly, feeling climax build from the base of his tailbone. 

"What's the matter, puppy?" said John between gritted teeth, applying himself to the task with great effort. 

"Touch it. Get me off, John!"

John frowned and considered the demand in a mock-stern tone.

"Hm. Been a good boy for Daddy? Want me to touch your bone...?"

Greg looked round with an appalled scowl.

"That's disgusting! Go on, do it. I'll bloody bark for ya."

Gregory Lestrade was not an unreasonable man, after all.

"Nah, no need to bark for my attention," panted John with a smirk, and reached round to grasp his lover's heavy, wet prick in his hand without moving it. "Just beg for it, puppy."

"Beg?!" yelped Greg in outrage.

"Yeah. Beg me. Or I'll..." 

John stopped completely. He stilled his hips, barely holding onto his control as he did so. He let go of Greg's cock. 

Greg whined in furious protest and jerked about, trying to force a resumption of activities. John held firm, metaphorically and literally. 

"No, don't fucking stop, you utter swine... Please! Oh, come on, touch it, please! All right?"

"Doesn't sound very submissive to me." John nudged at his lover's pleasure centre, to remind him what he was playing for.

"Ooh... Please! Wank me off. I'm begging you to make me come! I'll do anything - any filthy, kinky thing you like! I'll be a good pup for my Daddy, just  _please_ put your hand on my cock... Oh, John, love..."

John's eyes rolled back in his head as Greg clenched down on him. 

"You. Dirty. Hound," he said, punctuating each word with a thrust. Greg went a bit dizzy as he tuned into His Master's Voice. When John grabbed his hip with one hand and his prick in the other, and lent right over his back to hump him to the finish, it was suddenly all over. 

Rex, Greg, whoever he now was, howled as his orgasm shot from him, spurting with force right up to the headboard. John joined him until their combined noise threatened to bring the RSPCA down upon them. He fucked his meltingly hot prick as deep as it would go, and spent inside Greg with head-spinning intensity. His compact body juddered with the effort of it, and it left him utterly weakened and empty. 

They collapsed into a moaning heap, swiping at each other with limp hands as though to say ‘nice one, mate.’ 

Neither of them spoke. The sound of deep rasping breaths and satisfied canine whimpers filled the air. 

Greg's arse ached and buzzed in the aftermath; he winced a bit as he rolled over onto his back, hugging his bloke to him possessively. 

John grinned up at his flushed, sweaty partner. They were both positively aglow with contentment. 

"Sore?" he asked, cheekily.

Greg gave him a thumbs-up with one hand and a knackered smile.

"Yeah, brilliant. Arse like a windsock. How are you?"

"Think I've given myself a friction burn," he chuckled. 

"At the risk of sounding like Mycie - you're a brute, John Watson."

John winked at him. "That I am, Rexy."

Greg growled and rolled onto him, attacking him with bites and scratches in one final burst of post-coital energy. They wrestled together and John happily let himself be subdued this time.

"Aw. Man's best friend, you are," John giggled, as he settled his head upon the dark furry chest and kissed it. 

Greg returned the kiss to the the top of John’s damp hair. 

"You certainly are mine. My mate for life. In all senses."

"Well, one of."

"No less special for that, love,” affirmed Greg. “Need all my pack around me, don't I? My litter of lovely boys."

John hummed, feeling fulfilled and warm. Companionable silence fell, and they cuddled up to each other, their legs intertwined.

Greg sighed deeply.

"Would you think less of me if I said I really bloody enjoyed that?"

"Nope."

"I really bloody enjoyed that." 

John snorted.

"Good. I'll keep your doggy things hidden away from nosy parkers."

Greg's head jerked up with a start. 

"Oh, Christ, what if they find them?!"

The text-based mockery was one thing, but if Holmeses sniffed out his puppy toys there'd be an avalanche of teasing, and he might never be able to wrest control of the little sods ever again. 

John shrugged.

"We'll have to let them both be puppies, I guess. They won't want to give you commands, believe you me." He giggled as a thought occurred. "Mycie'd be a very pampered pooch, wouldn't he? A lovely Irish Setter, or something finely bred anyway. A handsomely groomed red-haired spaniel with wicked teeth and a taste for only the finest cuts of meat. Something you'd find lounging around in one of the Royal Palaces." 

"Fucking hell, imagine how badly behaved a Lockie Pup would be...," shuddered Greg, picturing the trail of wanton destruction all too easily.

"Hyperactive, clever little mongrel, pissing all over the place, constantly burying your slippers."

"Only so I wouldn't be able to spank his arse with them. Sounds about right. Actually, that might be the one thing Myc couldn't cope with, him pissing everywhere." 

"Nah, he'd cope. There's worse, but we won't even think about that..."

Greg grimaced. "Oh, God, shut up! Anyway, Lock’s basically a puppy already. Both of them are. Rolling over to have their tummies tickled on a regular basis."

"Well, we're all filthy beasts when you get down to it," yawned John, closing his eyes. "But loyal ones."

Greg was just dozing off too when John suddenly tapped him.

“Eh? What?” he said, jumping back to wakefulness.

John looked up at him with a frown.

"So… If you're a growly Mastiff, and Mycie's a pampered pooch, and Lock's a grubby little mongrel - what am I, then?"

Greg grinned. "You? You're a terrier, you."

John pinched his nipple in immediate revenge.

"Is that a crack about my height? Cos terriers are massive dogs in small packages, I'll have you know!"

"Ow, yeah, I know!” laughed Greg, rubbing his wound. “I meant that you're a stubborn bastard. The Watson Terrier - never lets anything go, digs until he finds what he's looking for, barks worse than he bites."

"Don't you believe it, mate."

Greg yawned.

"Oh, stop yapping and give us a cuddle."

“Dunno what you’re laughing at, pal,” snorted the Terrier. “Not staying here with me. You’re sleeping in that basket in the corner.”

“Don’t get cocky, Watson," said the Mastiff. "I may let you fuck me stupid. But it’s my bloody Date Night next time. And every dog has his day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My attitude to lovely comments is very much Greg's attitude to lovely boys - gimme.


	8. Mycroft and Greg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has hired a workman. A lippy brute of a workman with a huge tool. DIY porn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever since I mentioned Gregory wearing his toolbelt briefly in Closed Circuit, I've had this Date in mind. More banterific than sexy, I'd say, and loaded with stupid innuendo.

He really ought to have been here by now. One simply couldn’t rely on people these days. It was aggravating. A chap like Mycroft Holmes had no business being kept waiting more than three quarters of an hour by some workshy layabout, who, against his better judgement, he had hired to do some piffling tasks around the house. Piffling tasks which he could not attend to himself, though it irritated him not to be self-sufficient. But he was cut from finer cloth than the denim and oily rag brigade. He had no desire to waste time learning how to screw things.

There were just certain tasks best left to the lower orders. A very important, very refined man such as Mycroft Holmes would not be sullied by the mind-numbingly practical - nor debase himself by attempting things that any uneducated, unreconstructed brute could turn his hand to. The cerebrally gifted were here to attend to the betterment of civilisation - or so he was telling himself this afternoon - whilst the cavemen grubbed around in sawdust and grease.

But could these cavemen ever be induced to arrive on time when offered money to perform their useful little domestic tricks? Evidently not. Words would have to be had. Because, this afternoon in particular, he was just that sort of man.

The doorbell rang. Finally. The pre-arranged visit, 45 minutes past the pre-appointed time. Almost as though precipitating some kind of confrontation. It really was too bad. And it really was too, too good.

Mycroft Holmes opened his front door with an air of superciliousness excessive even for the NW2 postcode. He raised an eyebrow and his mouth felt into a moue of disapproval. He looked the man on his doorstep up and down with something that might have been taken for distaste, were he not a gentleman and well-versed in the blank-faced pseudo-politeness upon which the structure of English society had depended for centuries.

What a sight. Silvery hair, spiked and scruffy. Dark eyebrows. A short stubby pencil tucked behind his ear. A thinning t-shirt which may once have been white. A pair of paint-splashed stonewash jeans which appeared to have been recently savaged by some kind of clawed beast. And wrapped round a pair of slim but sturdy hips - set below the merest suspicion of middle-aged spread - a toolbelt, fully kitted out with items Mycroft could not begin to fathom the uses of.

The man wearing this appalling ensemble was older than him by a few years. Of average height, and average build, aside from his rather broad shoulders, and brawny arms which seemed to bulge from his too-tight t-shirt. The face, a very prepossessing one with rather soulful brown eyes, and a mouth which turned up naturally into a friendly smile. 

He was attractive. God, was he attractive. But insolent. Of that Mycroft was absolutely sure. And very likely indolent. He was not about to let the man’s obvious animal magnetism undermine his superior status.

"Ah, you're here at last,” he said, dryly. “A little late. But better a little late than a little never, I suppose."

The workman on the doorstep grinned and scratched his head.

"Yeah, got caught on the Camden Road."

Mycroft frowned.

"Doing what?"

He shrugged carelessly.

"Caught in traffic. You ordered a man with a van. I didn't fly here, did I?"

As Mycroft suspected: sarcastic, with no healthy respect for authority or position. Someone who liked televised sport. And supermarket beer. And scratched themselves in public.

"Yes, well. You're here now. Please remove your work boots before you come inside the house."

The workman just about refrained from rolling his eyes and knelt to undo his heavy footwear, leaning a little too closely to the homeowner's legs for comfort.

"Oh. Right. Posh carpets, yeah? Don't mind the holes in me socks, guv," he chuckled, wiggling his toes through a pair of socks Mycroft shuddered at.

The workman stood back up, and cocked his head enquiringly. If he had clocked the superior attitude of his employer he appeared unfazed by it.

"What was it you needed again, pal?"

Mycroft frowned even more deeply.

"Weren't my instructions relayed to you? I spoke to some...person on the phone,” he said, as though detecting a nasty smell.

He truly had spoken to someone on the phone. Someone called John, in the guise of a very cheeky builder's mate whose job it was to relay the requested activities back to his colleague. Third parties were sometimes useful in these situations. Fourth parties, however, were completely beyond the pale, and sat giggling in the background, making saucy remarks about big tools and calling the client a walking cliché with no imagination. 

"They don't tell me nuffink in the office,” came the breezy reply, interrupting his reverie. “Just heard you needed a bloke ‘toot sweet’, like."

"The dishwasher has broken,” sighed Mycroft, irritably. The man’s accent was simply ghastly. “There's a leak somewhere."

The vulgar tradesman shrugged casually and uncaringly.

"Not exactly a bonded and gilded plumber. Odd-jobs man, mainly. But I'll try anything once," he said, still grinning with an infuriating lack of deference.

"I don't want you touching anything if you're not fully licensed!"

"Hey, keep your hair on. You can trust me to touch anything you like."

"Hm. That remains to be seen. Still, I really do need a handyman. I have plenty of other 'odd jobs' as you say. I think the radiators need bleeding, they're making an ungodly noise at night."

The handyman snorted.

"Can't you do that yourself? All you need is an Allen Key."

"I don't know who or what that is, but I'm sure you have one somewhere in your toolbelt," said Mycroft, looking down at it, with a slightly faraway look in his eyes.

"Prob'ly,” smirked the man, rolling his hips almost imperceptibly to show off his equipment. “I'll take care of it. Don't suppose they teach housework at Eton, do they?"

Mycroft straightened up and seemed to freeze over with ice.

"I could not say, not having gone there."

"Didn't go to the local comp, though, did ya?"

The man seemed to be teasing him now, and it was most annoying.

"I have no intention of discussing my formative education with you. I doubt you are entirely familiar with the concept...,” he muttered, rudely.

"I beg yours?" said the workman, eyes narrowing.

Mycroft coughed.

"No matter. To recap: I shall need you to look at the kitchen, the radiators. I have purchased a new bedroom door which needs sanding down and fitting, also."

The man grinned knowingly. "Oh, yeah? What happened to the old one?"

Mycroft almost broke. 

"My little brother kicked it so hard it came off its hinges."

"Kid have a tantrum, did he?" smirked the workman, almost as if he knew that the kicked door was the result of an almighty Operation-based row, during which Mycroft had foolishly attempted to lock himself in his room for a bit of peace.

"The boy is prone to outbursts of petty temper. Needless to say, my retribution was painfully swift." And enacted with the judicious application of a slipper.

"I'll bet. A very  _sore_ loser, eh?"

Mycroft cleared his throat and snapped back into role. 

"Mm. So, there's that. Oh, and perhaps you could take a look at my drawers."

The workman seemed to find this amusing for some reason.

"Ooh, there's an offer I can't refuse."

"My chest of drawers,” retorted Mycroft, appalled by the innuendo. “You do know what that is? As in furniture?"

"Oh, I know what's what, mate, yeah,” said the man with great self-confidence.

"I take it you've brought a workbench? I don't want you using my counter tops. And you must cover everything with a dust sheet. I don't want to know you've been here afterwards."

The man regarded him steadily and now seemed vaguely disgruntled at being spoken to with such consistent hauteur. His usual cheery attitude towards posh gits was not having the desired levelling effect. This one was a tough nut to crack.

"I've got a workbench, propped down the side there. I'll get it. Always prepared, me," he said, indicating to the side of the house.

Mycroft stepped out and craned round to look. He let out a tiny, doubtful sound.

“Hm. I see. It looks more like a flimsy trestle table to me.”

The man put his hands on his hips, offended.

“Yeah, well, proper ones are expensive!”

“I do have money to pay for things like that,” admonished Mycroft, looking at him meaningfully.

The silver-haired man glowered.

“Maybe I didn’t want to pass unnecessary expenses on. And maybe I won’t be using it that bloody often. Whatever, mate, it’s a flat surface I can work on. It’ll do, all right? Don’t nitpick…”

A slight pause fell as they eyed each other. Some unspoken communication passed between them.

Mycroft decided to let it go.

"Yes, well. Come in."

The workman fetched the table, lifted a small bag of heavier tools, and suppressed a chuckle as he brushed past without a care in the world.

"Milk, two sugars, ta," he said, with the devil's own cheek.

He took it upon himself to move into the house ahead of his client. Mycroft followed him hastily, scowling at the presumption.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Tea up, yeah? Can't work without a cuppa. Cheers, mate."

"Anything else...? Glass of wine, cheese plate...," said Mycroft under this breath, hastening to catch up with the rogue trader.

"Nah, take a biccy or two if you got any. Not fussy, me," he called over his shoulder.

"So I imagine. I don't have time to be catering to you all day!”

The man stopped suddenly in the living room and Mycroft almost crashed into him.

"Ooh, that's how it is, is it? OK, OK. But the more tea you give the worker the better the work. Just sayin'."

Mycroft pulled back and forced himself back into ramrod straight posture, attempting to retain his dignity. He looked at the man with acidic disdain.

"I assumed the wages I am paying you would guarantee your best work. If you don't intend to satisfy me, you can simply go elsewhere for your cash in hand. ‘Just saying’."

"Don't get tetchy with me, pal,” said the man, raising a dark eyebrow. “I'll satisfy you.” He looked away for a moment. ”Hoity toity..."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nuffin', just muttering. Show me where I'm going then." 

Mycroft gestured through to the kitchen with bad grace.

The man plonked his stuff down haphazardly. 

"Missus not in?"

Mycroft bristled at the unwarranted nosiness.

"What? No. Not that it's any of your business, but I am not married."

The workman tilted his head and smirked.

"No? Bachelor, is it? City type like you, must have a few dolly birds on the go," he said, heavy with implication. Mycroft was horrified to find himself being nudged by a suggestive elbow.

"Don't be impertinent!"

"I'll take that as a yes. Bet they go nuts for you, do they?," he said, eyeing him up. "Handsome fella. Money and nice suits."

Mycroft felt his face growing a little hot.

"That is none of your concern."

"What's your taste then? I like 'em with big tits," he lied.

"Really! This is not appropriate professional conversation..."

"What's wrong with it? Don't bat for the other side, do you?" said the insufferable rogue, with a suggestive pursing of the lips and a camp hand gesture.

"What on earth -"

The man held his hands up and shook his head tolerantly.

"Not that there's anything wrong with it. Enlightened bloke, I am. Just sayin', you should get yourself hitched, pal. Need a feminine touch. In the house, I mean. Bit stark, innit?"

"No, it is not and I do not require a feminine touch! I.... Look, I am not going to exchange personal pleasantries, or rather, unpleasantries, with a tradesman. Please carry on with your job and cease this idle chatter."

"Suit yourself. I'm Greg, by the way. Not 'a tradesman',” grinned Gregory, holding out his hand. Mycroft resisted the urge to take it, and resisted the urge to do a lot of other things as well.

He sniffed.

"I really couldn't care less, I do not intend to be on first name terms with casual labourers."

"No, didn't exactly have you down as a socialist…"

Mycroft bit his tongue to prevent the inevitable guffaw. Instead, he pointed.

"There's the dishwasher. There is the teapot, tea is in the jar.”

Greg mooched around the kitchen, unimpressed.

“I only keep loose leaf," said the smug master of the house. "Please feel free to boil a kettle. And wash everything up afterwards."

"Loose leaf?!” snorted Greg in disgust. “Hardly worth the effort. Just a bag in a mug’ll do me.”

It was a perennial sore point for him, really.

Mycroft huffed.

"No-one's forcing you to have any. I will be in the next room. I do not expect to be disturbed. Please get on with your work and I shall get on with mine."

And with that, Mycroft Holmes – a thousand times snobbier than he had ever been in his life – turned on his heel and departed, leaving a marvellously vexatious, smirking Gregory behind him. Date Night, or rather, Date Day was getting off to a flying start.

Greg really did need to fix the dishwasher. And sort out the radiators, and sand down the new door. He firmly believed in a bit of DIY - as with domestic jobs, so with sex. Why not combine the two? He got on with his tasks, forcing his hard-on down and trying not to anticipate the next stage of the game. Mycie had been magnificently rude thus far. And he was in for a rather rude awakening – just as he had requested.

In the study, Mycroft was likewise getting on with work - a backlog of reports he’d been forced to take up this weekend. He was also attempting not to touch himself at the thought of his lover in the other room, all sweaty and uncouth and chirpy. And wearing ripped jeans, with a huge, heavy toolbelt slung round his hips… He wondered momentarily whether he’d been snooty enough to elicit the desired response, but his train of thought was interrupted by a coarse, guttural accent.

"Oi... Mate?"

Greg popped his spiky head round the door.

Mycroft stiffened, in more ways than one.

"I am not your mate,” he said, coldly. “Kindly address me as Mr Holmes, if you please. But sir would be preferable."

"Bloody hell... All right, Mister. Going out for a quick fag break."

"You've only been at it half an hour!"

Greg grinned saucily.

"Yeah, and I'm gasping. Care to join me?"

"I gave up years ago, it's an appalling habit,” he chided, hoping very much that Gregory was not about to resume his own old appalling habit just for the sake of a scene.

Greg shrugged insouciantly.

"I like a couple when I'm working. Let me out the back?"

Mycroft shook his head firmly, trying to give his lover the gimlet eye.

"Out of the question. I'd rather you didn't smoke in my garden. Nor come back smelling like an ashtray. You'll have to try abstinence until your shift is over."

Greg smirked inwardly at the concern in his lover’s eye. He winked.

"Not one for abstinence, I'm not."

Mycroft glared at the appalling suggestiveness.

"I have no wish to know, but I forbid you from smoking on the job."

Greg leaned on the door frame, pushing his groin forwards to show off the rather prominent bulge in his jeans. Mycroft couldn’t help but gulp.

"Done a lot worse than that on the job, I can tell you..."

Mycroft stood up as sharply as he could with a raging stiffy.

"Really!" he exclaimed, like a Victorian matriarch in a bustle.

"You can't forbid me, mate. It's human rights, innit?" teased Greg, running a hand through his hair, trying and succeeding at being as infuriating and charming as possible.

"Not in this house, it isn't!"

Greg rolled his eyes with heavy exasperation.

"Fine. Whatever. Bloody health freaks..."

He wandered off again.

Another thirty minutes of actual work passed, though neither man could quite give it their full attention. Both wondered whether it was such a bright idea after all, mixing business with pleasure.

When Mycroft had finished perusing his final document, he eagerly went in search. He found the home help in the kitchen where he left him, sanding the door on the makeshift table masquerading as a proper workbench.

The sight of him made his heart stop. Greg was topless and exerting himself, leaning over the bench to rhythmically rub at it with a strip of sandpaper. But just because he was gorgeous and basically humping a door, that was no reason to let him win. Yet.

"Gary - "

Greg glared up and put his hands on his hips.

"Greg.”

Mycroft waved airily.

"Same difference. Why have you removed your shirt?!"

"Sweaty work, this,” explained the half-naked and very sweaty man. “You'd know if you'd ever done a day's hard work in your life."

Mycroft had done many a day’s hard work in his life. But not physical work. Not without involving a treadmill, and never for money. Every other type of hard work was entirely familiar to him. But sweaty labour, hard muscular graft, was not his forte and thus was rather a fetish. When it was being undertaken by Gregory, muscles rippling, dark furry chest exposed, dripping with perspiration, it went beyond fetish and into erotic obsession territory.

"Kindly put your clothes back on," he said, entirely against nature and instinct.

Greg looked down at his pecs. "Why? S'only natural, innit?"

"You are... It is most distracting!"

Mr Holmes looked most distracted indeed. In fact, he was gawping openly. His tongue was practically hanging out.

"Am I now?" enquired Greg, huskily, leaning on one hip, thumb tucked into his waistband.

"You cannot come here and work half-naked, it is quite unseemly!"

"Unseemly? Charming. I'm not exactly the Elephant Man, am I? Some blokes like it."

"Well, I don't!" Mycroft protested. Too much, of course.

"No?" asked Greg, biting his tongue between his teeth in playful provocation.

"No, indeed. I want you out," remonstrated Mycroft. “I shall pay you for the minimal amount you seem to have done. I estimate half an hour of actual work, and the rest just tea-drinking and scratching yourself."

Greg grumbled and officially downed tools, looking a bit pissed off.

"I want paying for the whole day."

Mycroft rummaged for his wallet.

"Then you shall be bitterly disappointed. There's twenty pounds, and that's all you're getting,” he said, slamming the note on the countertop.

Greg’s eyes narrowed and he stepped forward with ill-concealed menace.

"Is it, now?"

 Mycroft stood his ground and lifted his chin in defiance.

"Yes."

"Shame. Could do with a bit extra this month… Can't offer you any other services, can I? Mister?""

Greg stalked towards him and Mycroft suppressed the urge to squeak.

"What on earth do you mean?" he blustered, eyes half-closing with badly disguised desire.

"Personal services? I am a very  _handy_ man."

Mycroft blushed as he was fixed by a wolfish glare, panting rather heavily now.

Greg ran his eyes down to his customer's bulging groin, seeing his erect penis outlined beneath the expensive trousers. 

Mycroft held out for just a little longer.

"I don't need anything from you..." 

Greg looked at him smugly. "Don't believe you. Getting a bit hot in here, innit? Getting sweaty under the collar. I’m absolutely boiling, me."

"Must be the malfunctioning radiators you were supposed to fix."

Greg began to unbutton his jeans, ever so slowly.

As each button popped, Mycroft’s knees became a little weaker. Greg pulled his jeans down and kicked them away. His hard cock, heavy and thick, sprang free, slapping at his lower abdomen. Mycroft groaned at the very idea of Gregory going commando, and then again at the sight of his leaking erection framed by the chunky toolbelt.

"I can fix other stuff," husked Greg, watching the play of absolute lust in his lover's face. "I can fix all sorts. Especially that roaring great bonk-on you've had for me since I turned up."

Greg reached for Mycroft's straining fly but was batted away half-heartedly.

"How dare you... Put that...thing...away! You must leave."

"Leave? What, with me so well-equipped, and you asking me so nicely to have a look at yer chest and drawers..."

He stepped in closer and sniffed barely centimetres away from Mycroft’s collar.

"Mm. Expensive. Give me my full day's pay, Mr Holmes."

Mycroft shivered deliciously. "You should have thought about that before. I do not require ill-bred Neanderthals in my home."

Greg stepped back shaking his head. 

"Dangerous to upset Neanderthals with access to heavy tools...," he rumbled. He moved a hand to his cock, plumping it up in his palm. 

Mycroft couldn't stop staring at it. 

"If you lay one finger on me you will be in a world of trouble. I am a very important man," he said, rather absently.

"Course you are, mate. But I bet if I laid one of my common-as-muck fingers on you, you wouldn't scream... Not yet anyway.”

Greg raised his hand, palm flat, and Mycroft pretended to flinch away from it as if afraid of being hit. The hand hovered just above his cheek and moved closer until one fingertip touched his pale cheek.

"You’re a softie. Like a girl."

"I am not like a girl!"

"Prove it." 

"I have nothing to prove to you, Graham, or whatever your name is," panted Mycroft in a tight voice, leaning backwards slightly.

Greg moved imperceptibly closer with a tiny growl, still masturbating.

"Greg. I'll teach you me name, mate. You won't forget it again."

With his free hand Greg loosened and stripped off Mycroft's tie, chucking it over his shoulder.

"Ooh, look, it does come off - thought I might have to use me pliers."

Greg clucked his tongue at the sight of his lover looking gorgeously dishevelled in just his shirt and trousers - panting and pink-faced, giving in to base seduction.

"See, now you look less of an uptight bastard," he crooned.

With some force he gripped the taller man's shirt collar in both hands and yanked it apart, tearing buttons off so they went sprinkling across the floor.

Mycroft gasped in badly-disguised delight. He had purposefully not worn a waistcoat to prevent one of the precious collection being destroyed, but he would gladly lose a shirt to a bit of sexy roleplay.

"That cost more than a month of your wages!" he exclaimed, loving every second of Greg's brutish persona. 

"You can afford it." 

Mycroft’s bare chest was visible now, with little tufts of fine red-blond hair just begging to be touched. Greg indulged himself, then slipped his hands down inside the man’s trousers, delighting at what he found inside.

“Ooh, no knickers? Naughty. Always the quiet ones, innit?” giggled Greg, somewhat hypocritically under the circumstances. He had a good old rummage around, grasping his lover's hot, sticky cock with one hand, and running the other behind to caress his firm bottom. "Oh, who'd have thought all that was under there? Big posh lad. Nice arse on you."

He ripped Mycroft's trousers open, sending more buttons popping, and pulled them down in one yank. "Give us a kiss, darlin'," he said, lecherously, and lunged for his partner's mouth as he touched his prick with firm strokes. Mycroft whined and returned the favour with gusto - they stood in the kitchen indulging in a mutual handjob, kissing passionately in and out of character.

"I'll keep me toolbelt on if you ask me nicely," husked Greg in his ear.

Mycroft nodded frantically. "Mm-hm. Keep it on."

"Eh? Didn't hear the magic word. Don't they teach you manners at Harrow?"

"I didn't go to - Please. Please, keep your toolbelt on!"

“Need putting in your place good and proper, you snobby sod. Don’t you?”

“Yes. Oh, yes,” agreed Mycroft.

“Yeah. All the posh lads like a good hard cock up the arse, don't they? I've buggered my way round Hampstead enough to know. Need loosening right up.”

“I don’t know… You’re a little bit…”

Mycroft looked with convincing nervousness at the large appendage in his hand. Greg took the compliment with far less bashful self-deprecation than he usually did. In fact, he swaggered at it.  

"Oh, I may not be much of a plumber, but I've got a hell of a plunger." 

"Has anyone ever told you, you have a warped and disgusting sense of humour?" tutted Mycroft sincerely, pressing in for another kiss.

They clasped each other close, letting their pricks rub together as they snogged. Greg licked and nibbled his way round Mycroft's earlobe and neck. 

"A few people spring to mind. But they just have to put with it. Think it's part of me rugged charm."

Mycroft snorted and his mouth struggled not to break into an enormous grin.

"Yes, I'll give you that."

"And I'll give you this..." 

With sudden energy, Greg span his lover round and forced him down onto the workbench with his trousers still pooled round his ankles and his shirt tails flapping. The sanded door was held securely in a vice at either end, with no possibility of nasty splinters, just as he'd intended.

Mycroft buckled and bent over, bracing himself on his forearms and shoving his backside back into the workman's groin. 

"Oh, Jesus!" he gasped, feeling the impressive hard-on against his cleft. 

"Nah, it's Greg, I keep tellin' you."

“Oh, Greg. I've never done this with anyone working class before," lied Mycroft, for his own amusement.

Greg chuckled and leaned down close to his ear, his breath tickling at him, sending tingles down his spine.

"Undo your cuffs," he instructed in a low voice. "Don't argue. Put your hands flat on the top there."

Mycroft peered over his shoulder in surprise, though his eyes were dilated at the wicked intent in his lover's voice. He did as he was told and watched with quizzical interest as Greg took a hammer from his belt and held two nails between his teeth. 

"What are you...?"

"Hold still," warned Greg. He leaned forward and whacked a nail through one cotton cuff, pinning it to the wooden surface.

"Gregory, not the new door!"

"Shut it. Next one," said Greg, cheerfully ignoring him. 

He carefully repeated the procedure on the other cuff, enjoying the way the hammer blow made Mycroft jump.

"Oh, really!" protested Mycroft, genuinely appalled.

Greg winked rakishly.

"Think this is what they mean by gettin' nailed, love. Can't move now, can you?"

Mycroft tugged with his wrists. "No. I'm stuck." 

“Not stuck. Fucked," giggled Greg, pleased with himself. He slipped a finger to his lover’s puckered opening and teased it so that it twitched against him. “Oh, you little beauty…”

Mycroft coughed self-consciously.

“No comment." 

He pushed his bottom out and spread his legs wide for easier access.

Greg dipped into his toolbelt again and found the tube of KY.

"Gonna grease you up, mate. Lucky I'm so prepared, or I might not have bothered..."

Mycroft felt his lover's thick slippery finger play around his hole, and moaned as it entered him in one movement, a little rougher than he usually took it. Greg didn't hang about, and made short work of opening him on a second wet finger, rubbing at his perineum with his thumb to enhance the pleasure.

With only an uncouth grunt, Greg mounted up behind him, parted the quivering cheeks and pushed his way between them. He groaned as his sensitive crown squeezed through the ring of muscle and his shaft was enveloped by hot, tight flesh.

Mycroft cried out as he was split and filled, tilting his hips and arching his back to bear down on the piercing intrusion. His fingers scrabbled at the wooden surface beneath him, and he could do nothing but take it when Greg grasped his hips and began thrusting into him. 

The tradesman was not planning on taking his time. Quick and dirty - that's what they'd told him in the office. So quick and dirty is what he'd deliver.

“Apologise for being such a snobby git to me!” panted Greg, forcing himself in harder. The added weight of the toolbelt round his hips was unusual to say the least, but it added to the resistance and gave him a bit more of a workout.

Mycroft shook his head in defiance. “You apologise for being a vulgarian!” he demanded, though it sounded less than convincing between ragged gasps.

“You need to rethink your etiquette, mate. Teach you your manners," growled Greg through clenched teeth. His eyes glinted hotly as he raised his hand, and spanked down hard, matching every thrust of his hips with a stinging reproof to his lover’s pale, pert bottom.

Mycroft howled in pleasure, and wailed out his overly-dramatised protests to stimulate them both a little more.

“Oh, please! Ow. Don’t spank me!” he cried, thrusting his arse up for more. Greg grinned behind his back and smacked him harder. Mycroft was ever a happy man in these moments - backside reddening beneath his lover's hand, being steered towards an orgasm on his prick. “I’m sorry I was rude to you. It was unconscionable. It was unacceptable. I apologise! Ow, please, you're hurting me!”

Greg carried on. 

“Gonna give me my wages?" 

“Yes, I'll pay you! Pay you to fuck me...," he pleaded, with a complete lack of shame or self-consciousness. Indulging in such silliness is what Date Nights were for, after all.

Greg’s face contorted as he rode, and he angled himself to batter at his lover's sweet-spot. Mycroft moaned loudly at the renewed pleasure sparking right the way through him as he was so vigorously rogered. He came up onto his toes to be pounded harder against the table, pressing his chest flat to the surface, arms held helplessly immobile by the nails through his shirt cuffs. He grunted rhythmically and open-mouthed, his prostate stimulated with every nudge of Greg's hips. The toolbelt whacked up against his backside for added effect, and he imagined the sight they made. Gregory, naked except for his workman's tools, buried balls deep. And himself - trousers down, ripped shirt lifted high, nailed to and on his own bedroom door.

Greg was lost in the moment, pistoning in and out with no let up. He shoved Mycroft forward so hard that his feet momentarily left the floor. 

The shag was getting a bit frantic now, and they were nearing the edge of completion, sweating and grunting in unison. It got noisier and more frenetic. And then it became a health and safety issue.

The workbench wobbled. It shuddered. It groaned along with them.

"Gregory, the table, I think it's going to..." 

And with a loud creak, it did. 

They crashed to the floor in slow motion, shouting out as the whole thing toppled to the left, and then fully collapsed underneath them. Greg pulled Mycroft's hips back to try and soften his landing, but the taller man took the brunt of the impact on his outer thigh, managing to twist so as not to crush his tender parts. Greg rolled with him as Mycroft ripped his cuffs away from the nails, just in time to cushion the worst of the fall with his hands. But he was winded and his forehead connected sharply with the wooden door. Somehow Gregory had managed to stay lodged inside him.

Sawdust flew up in a cloud and made them cough.

"Ooof!" 

Greg hastily pulled out and rolled Mycroft over, checking him with concern.

"Oh, fuck! Love, are you all right? Oh, shit..."

Mycroft winced and put his hand to his forehead, choking on wood shavings.

"Ouch. I bumped my head, Gregory," he said, forlornly, a bit of shock registering in his eyes. 

Greg sat him up and cuddled him, rubbing his back briskly as though he'd just fallen off a bike. 

"Poor sweetheart! Hang on, I'll get..."

Mycroft yanked him back.

"No. I'm all right, it's just a knock. I'm not concussed."

He checked himself over and found himself relatively unharmed, then turned to Greg with a concerned frown.

"Are you all right, dear?"

"Me? I'm fine. Didn't even get me knob out of you..."

Mycroft slapped his arm. 

"Don't be vile. Wait, what am I saying?  _Do_ be vile. For God's sake, finish me off!" he begged, turning quickly back around as though suddenly recalling what they'd been up to before they were interrupted.

Greg frowned doubtfully. "On the floor....?"

Mycroft went up on all fours, wiggling his backside, uncharacteristically ignoring the devastation around him. 

"Yes, here, now! We've had a near-death experience, we must make the most of the adrenaline before the pain kicks in!"

Greg slapped his lover's bum in reproach. "We'll get splinters down here! The door's intact but that fucking table has been properly buggered."

Mycroft whined in the back of his throat.

"Well, over the kitchen counter then. Anywhere! Come  _on_ , Gregory, we were so close! I'm a horrid snob and I need a good stiff one up the bum, remember?"

Greg sighed in compliance, knowing there'd be no peace until he'd finished the job. 

He helped Mycroft up, dusting them both down. The horny Holmes disentangled himself from his trousers and bent back over the counter, flipping his ruined shirt up in encouragement. 

Greg chuckled at Mycie's unintentional resemblance to Baby Brother at his most demanding.

"Oh, yeah. I remember what you need, mate."

He shoved him down with a firm hand between the shoulder blades, and picked up where he left off, shoving roughly into his arse. 

Mycroft relaxed back into the zone as they resumed their quick and dirty, and rather catastrophic, fuck. When Greg's hand finally came round to pull at his throbbing prick, he thrashed about and released with an intense spasm all over the kitchen counter. He wouldn't usually, but the place was already a doomed mess. 

"Lick that up, you dirty fucker," demanded Greg, pushing his lover's head down to the splatter. Mycroft whimpered at the filthy command and lapped at his own semen, moaning at the debauchery of the act while Greg arched and pulsed inside him with a shuddering groan. 

They stayed bent and panting for a while until Greg extracted himself.

"Stay put," he ordered, quietly. 

Mycroft flushed as Greg quickly ducked down and licked at the flow of spunk dribbling from his well-used hole and down the back of his thigh.

Greg turned his lover back round and kissed what he could into his willing mouth, then pulled away with a mucky leer. Mycroft swallowed and pushed forward assertively for another passionate kiss, tasting their combined essence on his tongue.  

"Happy now?" smirked Greg, wiping at his sticky chin.

Mycroft nodded politely, his mouth twitching at the edges.

"Yes, thank you. Excellent service."

Greg grabbed him for a cuddle, always unable to resist a sweaty, sticky, adorable Holmes.

"Ooh, my lovely Mycie. Don't you ever let some 'orrible oik come round and have you like that," he chided, wagging an ironic finger.

Mycroft chuckled and tidied his lover's spiky hair with his hands.

"I think we're safe on that score. You're the only handyman for me, dear."

“You old smoothie. How are your war wounds?"

Mycroft touched his forehead tentatively. 

"Just a few bumps and bruises. For once my backside is the least of my discomfort. I knew that cheap table wouldn't last! Inexpensive furniture is a false economy," he lectured, as he had dozens of times before.

Greg looked guilty. 

"All right, don't gripe. I admit it. I'll clear it up later and finish the rest. Let's have a bath now, though, yeah?" he said, pecking him on the nose.

Mycroft groaned as the happy hormones began to wear off. "I need one. I ache. And my legs always go a bit shaky when we do it standing."

Greg put a hand to his lower back and grimaced. "It's always the back for me. Bloody hell... Whiplash doesn't help either."

"Thank you for humouring my absurd fantasy." 

"Have to say, always turns me on, you all snobby and aloof. Makes me want to spank your arse til you cry and screw you til your eyes cross.”

"This is hardly news."

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, would you, mate?”

Mycroft kissed the top of his lover's head. “No, mate. I would not..."

They made their way up the stairs to the bathroom, arms slung around each other's waists, chatting idly in the afterglow. 

"I've always found it odd that the sexual vernacular adopts the language of the builder's yard," mused Mycroft, through a deep yawn. "Hammering, nailing, screwing..." 

"Big hard iron girders," giggled Greg, pinching his bum. "Trade."

Mycroft jolted with a little yelp and giggled in spite of himself.

"Phallic erections springing up all over London... All very homoerotic. Traditional masculinity is always overcompensating for something, one feels."

"Yeah, well, some blokes aren't getting what we're getting. They have to make do with thinking about it all the time."

"Yes, but we think about it all the time as well. Ah - you owe me a new door, by the way. That one has nail-holes and dents in it thanks to some brute of a workman!"

Greg shoved him playfully. "Nah. Keep it like that. Be romantic." 

"Hmm. Well, all right," conceded Mycroft. "But Lock will deduce it in a second." 

"Fine. If he kicks up a fuss, I'll use my big power drill to screw him to the wall." 

"Oh, don't brag, Gregory. It's so common."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do stop for a chat below. As always, I am invigorated and cheered by your support, if you are having a good time in this little world. Snogs and special tickles. x


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